7 


THE 


QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD? 


A  STUDY. 


BY 

AMELIE    HIVES.    ' 


u  Wanting  is what  ?" — Jocoseria. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


PS 


Copyright,  1888,  by  J.  B  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


LIPPINCOTT'S 

MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


APRIL,    1888. 


THE  QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD? 


I. 

fTHHERE  was  a  soughing  rain  asweep  that  night,  with  no  wind  to  drive 
_L  it,  yet  it  ceased  and  fell,  sighed  and  was  hushed  incessantly,  as 
by  some  changing  gale.  Barbara  was  a  good  deal  unnerved  by  the 
lanternless  drive  from  the  station.  The  shelving  road,  seamed  with 
abrupt  gullies,  lay  through  murk  fields  and  stony  hollows,  that  she 
well  remembered ;  in  the  glimpsing  lightning  she  saw  scurrying  trees 
against  the  suave  autumn  sky,  like  etchings  on  bluish  paper;  the  dry, 
white-brown  grasses  swirled  about  the  horses'  feet  in  that  windless  rain  ; 
and  after  what  thunderous  fashion  those  horses  pounded  stableward  ! 
They  hurled  through  narrow  gate- ways  like  stones  from  a  catapult, 
rushed  past  ragged  trees  whose  boles  seemed  leaping  to  meet  them,  spun 
over  large  stones  as  though  they  had  been  mere  fallen  leaves. 

The  black  driver  urged  his  smoking  team,  as  though  dissatisfied 
with  their  prowess,  by  sharp,  whistling  inward  breaths,  and  upward 
gestures  of  his  bowed  elbows.  He  was  a  grotesque  figure  against  the 
pennons  of  lightning.  Barbara  had  smiled  in  spite  of  her  fear,  lie- 
coming  suddenly  grave  as  they  just  grazed  the  corner  of  a  slanting, 
half-ruined  wall,  formed  of  rough  stones  and  clay,  the  "  Brook- 
field  Barn"  of  her  childhood,  and  her  fears  were  not  calmed  by 
recalling  the  fact  that  only  twenty  yards  ahead  stretched  a  long,  rani- 
shackle  bridge,  formed  of  loose  planks  held  in  place  by  wild  grape 
vine  branches  and  a  stone  placed  here  and  there.  This  bridge  dipped 
its  lithe  middle  almost  into  the  waters  of  a  hurling,  brown  stream, 
known  in  the  surrounding  country  as  "  Machunk  Creek."  There  were 
various  legends  regarding  the  origin  of  this  name.  The  negroes  said 
that  a  man  had  crossed  it  at  one  time,  carrying  a  chunk  of  "  fat"  light- 
wood  ;  when  on  the  middle  of  the  one  plank  which  then  served  for 
bridge,  he  had  dropped  his  pine-knot,  and  screamed  out  desperately, 

438 


434  THE    QUICK   OR    THE  DEAD? 

"  Oh  !  my  chunk  !"  Theuce  the  title  of  the  stream.  Barbara,  who 
had  always  unquestioningly  believed  this  story,  could  almost  fancy  that 
she  saw  this  swart,  regretful  figure  poised  now  above  the  hurly  of  rain- 
swollen  waters, — could  almost  hear  his  despairing  cry.  She  thought 
of  getting  out  of  the  trap  and  following  his  example  by  crossing  on 
foot,  when  a  dull,  whirring  rumble,  followed  by  a  certain  rock-a-bye 
motion,  told  her  that  they  were  upon  the  bridge.  She  shut  her  eyes 
with  an  infallible  womanly  instinct,  although  it  was  then  absolutely 
dark,  caught  a  fold  of  her  inner  lip  between  her  teeth,  and  pinched  the 
back  of  her  left  hand  firmly  in  the  palm  of  her  right.  There  was  a 
jolt,  a  spattering  scramble  from  the  horses,  another  of  those  sharp, 
unique  sounds  from  Unc'  Joshua  the  driver,  and  off  they  sped  once 
more  into  the  ever-increasing  gloom. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  Barbara  found  there  had  been 
lanterns,  with  candles  ready  for  lighting,  on  each  side  of  her.  She  had 
been  finally  whirled  in  upon  the  gravel  of  the  carriage-drive  of  Rose 
mary,  and  had  dodged  the  familiar  arms  of  the  box -trees,  that  scraped 
and  rattled  against  the  sides  of  the  flying  carriage :  then  came  orange 
blurs  of  light,  between  thick,  parted  curtains,  a  semicircular  glare 
over  the  hall  door,  and  little  glowing  ladders  to  right  and  left  of  it. 

Her  aunt  Fridiswig  had  rushed  to  meet  her,  had  embraced  her,  by 
leaving  a  moist  splash  upon  her  elastic,  night-cool  cheek,  and  some  of 
a  pepper-and-salt  shawl-fringe  caught  in  the  button  of  her  jacket. 
She  had  escaped  finally,  saying  that  she  would  like  a  cup  of  tea  in  her 
bedroom,  and  that  her  aunt  could  come  and  bid  her  good-night,  but 
was  on  no  account  to  sit  up  past  her  usual  hour  for  retiring. 

She  was  leaning  now  in  an  old,  chintz-covered  chair  in.  front  of  a 
chestnut-wood  fire.  How  vividly  that  chair  recalled  other  days  !  She 
smiled  a  little  drearily  as  she  ran  her  fingers  into  a  little  slit  in  the 
stuff,  which  she  had  cut  there  herself,  three  years  ago,  while  whittling  a 
peg  for  her  easel.  She  had  brought  no  maid  with  her,  having  looked 
forward  with  a  certain  pleasure  to  the  ministrations  of  the  maid  of  her 
girlhood,  a  dark-brown  creature,  with  a  profile  like  that  of  Rarueses  II., 
and  wearing  countless  slubs  of  black  wool  tied  up  with  bits  of  white 
string.  This  person  was  moving  about  the  room  with  a  light,  padding 
step  like  that  of  a  cat  through  wet  grass.  She  was  holding  up  and 
admiring  her  mistress's  cast-off  furs  and  under-wraps,  in  the  candle 
light  behind  her  back,  passing  her  hand  up  and  down  the  rich  sables 
with  a  voluptuous  ecstasy  of  appreciation ;  now  tucking  them  beneath 
her  chin  and  regarding  her  reflection  in  the  old-fashioned,  gilt-framed 
toilet-glass,  now  burying  her  face  in  them  with  a  shudderingly  de 
lighted  movement  of  her  shoulders.  Barbara  sat  listless,  her  damp 
hair  unwound  about  her  shoulders,  tapping  the  curled  ends  lightly 
against  the  palm  of  her  hand  as  she  dreamed,  wide-eyed,  in  the  uncer 
tain  firelight.  The  maid,  Martha  Ellen,  or  Rameses,  as  Barbara  called 
her,  came  presently  and  began  to  warm  a  pair  of  red-heeled  bedroom 
slippers  by  holding  them  to  the  blaze,  at  the  same  time  lifting  one  of 
her  pretty,  yellow-lined  hands,  palm  outward,  to  protect  her  face. 

The  gesture  went  through  Barbara  like  a  knife.  How  Val  used 
to  laugh  at  it,  when  Martha  Ellen  went  through  the  same  perform- 


THE   QUICK   OR    THE  DEAD?  435 

anoe  of  warming  his  slippers !  She  put  up  both  hands  to  her  breast 
with  a  movement  of  anguish.  Tears  clustered  hot  and  stinging  on 
her  lashes,  and  great  breaths  that  were  deeper  than  sobs  thrilled 
through  her  from  head  to  foot.  Ah,  she  had  been  a  fool  doubtless  to 
come  here,  for,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  she  must  expect  such 
painful  occurrences  twenty  times  a  day ;  and  yet  there  was  a  sorrow 
ful  sweetness  in  it,  too.  She  let  drop  her  hands,  and,  relaxing  her 
tense  figure,  sent  a  slow,  miserable  look  around  the  room.  It  was 
spacious,  airy,  Southern.  A  delicate,  dawn-like  mixture  of  rose  and 
gray  characterized  its  furniture.  The  large,  carved  bed,  of  mahogany, 
had  hangings  of  rose  and  white.  There  were  white  goat-skins  here 
and  there  on  the  gray  carpet,  and  some  very  good  water-colors,  by 
French  artists,  above  the  chimney-piece.  The  chairs  and  couches  were 
many  and  capacious.  The  number  of  mirrors  suggested  a  certain  van 
ity  on  the  part  of  its  occupant :  there  were  eight  in  all,  none  of  them 
small,  and  all  framed  heavily  in  old  gilt.  A  mahogany  writing-table 
near  one  of  the  windows  had  heavy  brass  handles,  awink  in  the  fitful 
light.  Barbara  rose  suddenly,  and,  putting  back  her  heavy  hair,  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  on  soft,  slipperless  feet. 

"  Wait,  Miss  Barbara,  honey,"  urged  Rameses,  approaching  her 
mistress  on  her  knees  and  holding  out  the  now  very-warm  slippers 
"  You'll  war  out  dern  pretty  stockin's." 

Barbara  stopped  and  stared  down  at  her  absently,  then  turned  gently 
away  and  re-began  her  long,  noiseless  stride. 

"  You  can  go,"  she  said.  "  Never  mind  the  slippers.  I'll  call  you 
presently." 

As  Barneses  left  the  room,  Barbara  locked  the  door  through  which 
she  had  passed,  and  then,  turning,  with  her  hand  still  on  the  key,  took 
another  long,  scrutinizing  survey  of  the  room. 

Presently  she  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and  drew  aside  the  curtain. 
The  skirt  of  the  sky  was  strewn  from  hem  to  hem  with  little,  flittering, 
filmy  clouds,  through  which  a  wet  moon  shone  vaporous;  the  tulip- 
trees,  nearly  stripped  of  their  golden,  October  leaves,  thrust  their  empty 
seed-cups  out  and  up,  like  so  many  elfin  goblets,  to  be  filled  with  weird 
mist-wine;  the  wind  blew  in  puffs,  like  a  thing  breathing  in  its  sleep, 
and  the  rain  had  ceased.  Barbara's  hair  made  a  mellow  glow  in  the 
wan  light,  and  the  already  scarlet  holly-berries  blinked  back  at  her  from 
the  frothy  gloom  of  the  shadow-waves.  A  horse  neighed  impatiently 
just  below,  and  was  answered  from  a  far  meadow.  She  could  see  the 
light  from  her  windows  streaking  the  faded  grass  on  the  lawn.  With 
a  sigh  she  let  the  curtain  drape  itself  once  more  in  its  accustomed  folds, 
pausing  to  rest  both  hands  on  the  mahogany  writing-table,  and  again 
devouring  the  room  with  that  slow,  absorbing  gaze.  As  her  returning 
eyes  fell  upon  the  table  on  which  she  leaned,  she  gave  a  strange  cry, 
and  pressed  backward  among  the  window-curtains,  still  keeping  a  fixed, 
horrified  look  on  the  table.  How  bathos  will  intrude  upon  pathos!  It 
is  the  flippant  Tweedledum  of  a  most  serious  Tweedledee.  The  possible 
viper  from  which  poor  Barbara  shrank  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  half-smoked  cigar,  which  lay  in  a  neat  little  ash-tray  among  its  ashes, 
just  as  the  man  who  had  been  smoking  it  had  placed  it  there  three  yeary 


436  THE   qUICK  OR    THE  DEAD! 

ago.  Suddenly  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  table,  and,  snatching  up 
the  bit  of  tobacco,  kissed  it  again  and  again.  She  was  a  woman  with 
an  almost  terrible  sense  of  humor,  and  presently  she  began  to  laugh,  not 
hysterically,  but  quietly,  appreciatively.  She  saw  how  ridiculous  a  thing 
that  act  of  hers  would  seem  to  an  on-looker.  And  then  again  she  kissed 
it,  and,  catching  her  face  into  her  two  hands,  went  into  a  shuddering 
passion  of  sobs,  tearless,  noiseless,  and  terrible. 

Ail  this  will  not  seem  overstrained  when  one  knows  its  origin. 

In  this  room,  among  these  identical  articles,  just  three  years  ago 
Barbara  Pomfret  had  passed  the  first  three  months  of  an  absolutely 
joyous  married  life ;  two  years  ago  her  husband  had  died,  and  she  had 
come  back  an  utterly  unhappy  woman  to  the  scene  of  her  former  hap 
piness.  Every  chair,  book,  knick-knack,  rug,  in  this  room,  was  asso 
ciated  in  some  way  with  her  husband.  The  very  pictures,  the  toilet- 
glass,  the  ornaments  on  the  mantel-shelf,  all  held  for  her  some  memory 
which  stabbed  her  as  she  looked ;  and  yet  it  was  of  her  own  will  that 
she  had  returned.  She  did  not  wish  to  forget,  and  she  could  not  better 
remember  than  in  a  place  so  fraught  with  memories.  She  had  not, 
however,  calculated  the  full  poignancy  of  the  grief  that  was  about  to 
claim  her.  As  vanished  scenes  swept  across  her  inner  sight,  there 
came  with  them  words  and  looks  and  tones  innumerable.  His  arms 
held  her,  his  breath  warmed  her,  his  voice  was  in  her  ear,  vibrating, 
actual.  She  leaped  to  her  feet,  stumbling  over  her  heavy  gown ;  her 
fascinated,  dreading  eyes  sought  the  vague  gloom  behind  her,  as  she 
hurried  to  the  door.  The  room  was  full  of  his  voice,  of  his  sighing, 
of  his  laughter.  She  breathed  gaspingly,  and  caught  at  the  key  to 
unlock  the  door.  It  was  stiff  with  long  disusage,  and  refused  to  turn. 
There  again !  his  laughter,  about  her,  above  her,  and  his  lips  at  her 
ear.  She  could  hear  the  words,  loving,  reckless,  impassioned  words, 
not  meet  for  a  ghost  to  utter :  "  Barbara !  Barbara !  your  curled 
lips  are  a  cup,  and  your  breath  is  wine.  You  make  me  drunk ! — 
drunk  !" 

She  grasped  the  key  with  both  hands,  panting,  sobbing,  her  eyes 
strained  with  a  mighty,  overwhelming  panic.  Still  the  senseless  bit 
of  brass  resisted.  She  caught  up  a  fold  of  her  gown  and  wound  it 
about  the  handle.  Now  his  very  lips  were  on  her:  they  drew  her 
breath,  her  life. 

"  O  God,  help  me  !     O  God,  let  the  door  open  !  let  it  open  !" 

Miss  Fridiswig,  alone  with  her  knitting,  in  the  dining-room  just 
below,  heard  a  sudden  noise  as  of  falling,  and  burst  out  into  the  hall, 
to  meet  Rameses  with  her  eyes  goggling.  They  made  a  simultaneous 
rush  up  the  stairway,  and  nearly  fell  over  Barbara,  who  was  lying  on 
her  face,  half  in  and  half  out  of  her  room. 

Raineses,  who  was  as  strong  as  mast  men  of  her  size,  lifted  the 
poor  girl  bodily,  and  laid  her  upon  the  bed. 

They  did  all  the  disagreeable,  useless  things  that  people  generally 
do  to  a  tainting  woman,  and  by  and  by,  when  it  was  time  for  her  to 
return  to  consciousness,  she  opened  her  dark  eyes,  and  drew  several 
short,  difficult  breaths. 

"  1  know, — I  know, — "  she  said. 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  437 

"  You  know  what  ?"  coaxed  Miss  Fridiswig. 

"  I  know, — I  know, — "  repeated  Barbara, — "  I  know — where  I  am. 
Must  get — a — new  lock — to-morrow.  Rameses — sleep — in  here — to 
night.  What's  o'clock  ?" 

"  Mos'  twelve,"  said  Rameses,  who  was  holding  Barbara's  bare 
feet  in  her  hands.  "  You  go  tuh  bade,  Miss  Fridis.  Miss  Barb'ra, 
you  go  tuh  bade  too." 

"  Yes,  darling,  you  must, — for  my  sake,"  urged  Miss  Fridiswig. 

"  Not  yet ;  not  yet,"  said  Barbara. 

She  tried  to  sit  up,  and  fell  back  among  the  big  pillows.  A  sudden 
shivering  shook  her  throughout.  She  made  another  effort,  and  got 
her  arm  about  Rameses'  neck. 

"  Help  me — "  she  panted,  "  help  me— off  the  bed — quick.  That 
sofa  there — " 

When  they  had  made  her  comfortable  on  the  sofa,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  lay  so  still  that  they  thought  she  had  fainted  again ;  but  as 
Rameses  moved  to  fetch  some  of  the  noxious  remedies,  she  pressed 
down  a  fair  hand  on  the  girl's  wool,  signifying  that  she  was  to  remain 
beside  her. 

"  You  go  tuh  bade,  Miss  Fridis,"  said  Rameses.  "  'Tain't  no  use 
two  on  us  settin'  up." 

"  No,  not  a  bit,"  said  Barbara.     "  Please  go,  Aunt  Fridis." 

"  Ah,  let  me  be  of  use !  let  me  be  of  use !"  wailed  Miss  Fridiswig, 
casting  herself  on  her  knees  beside  Raraeses,  and  leaving  another  warm 
splash  on  Barbara's  inert  hand. 

Barbara,  who  never  willingly  hurt  the  feelings  even  of  a  cabman, 
did  not  know  what  to  do,  until  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  to  faint 
again.  When  she  came  to  herself  from  this  simulated  swoon,  Rameses 
had  packed  Miss  Fridiswig,  willy-nilly,  to  her  virgin  slumbers,  and 
was  resuscitating  the  dead  fire  by  breathing  on  it,  after  the  Biblical 
method. 

Barbara  lay  watching  her,  stung  again  by  an  almost  intolerable 
pang.  How  often  had  she  lain  on  that  very  sofa  and  watched  Val 
trying  to  imitate  the  negro  method  of  kindling  a  fire,  until  his  puffed- 
out  cheeks  made  him  into  a  very  excellent  likeness  of  a  wind-god 
oouchant ! 

When  the  wreathing,  lilac  flames  began  to  whirr  about  the  fresh 
logs,  she  called  the  girl  to  her. 

"  Are  you  very  sleepy  ?"  she  said,  smiling,  a  beautiful  smile  that 
Martha  Ellen  remembered.  It  was  associated  with  countless  gifts,  and 
seemed  to  breathe  of  the  summer,  a  season  endeared  above  all  others 
to  the  sensitive  little  black. 

"  Lor' !  Yuh  looks  jes'  like  yuh  use  tuh  !"  she  exclaimed,  regard 
less  of  Barbara's  question.  "  I  thought  yuh  done  give  up  smilin'  when 
[  seed  yuh  fust  tuh-night." 

"Did  you?"  said  Barbara.  She  smiled  again,  and  yielded  her 
hand  graciously  to  the  girl's  caresses,  repeating  her  question.  Martha 
Ellen  asserted  that  she  didn't  feel  sleep  "  nowhar  near  'bout  her." 

"  But  it  must  be  very  late  ?"  Barbara  said.  "  Are  all  the  other 
servants  in  bed?" 


^38  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD 9 

Martha  Ellen  thought  so,  and  slipped  a  lithe  arm  about  her  mis 
tress,  who  stood  still  for  an  instant,  while  the  apparent  seething  of  the 
articles  about  her  subsided.  She  was  tall,  and  her  figure  in  its  silverisb 
dressing-gown  of  white  silk  gleamed  like  a  streak  of  moonlight  in  the 
rich  dusk.  I  once  saw  a  stem  of  white  wild-flowers  lean  against  a 
charred  pine  as  she  was  now  leaning  against  her  dark-skinned  waiting- 
woman. 

Presently  she  moved  a  step  or  two.  The  girl  moved  with  her, 
bending  beneath  the  bare  white  arm  that  rested  heavily  across  her 
shoulders.  As  they  paused  again,  she  turned  her  face  up,  with  a 
sideward,  expectant  movement. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  Barbara  began,  "  that  if  you  know  where 
the  little  brass  bed  is, — the  one  I  used  to  sleep  in  as  a  little  girl,— 
I  would  help  you  to  get  it." 

"  Naw,  you  ain't ;  you  ain'  gwine  he'p  me  git  nuthin',"  said  Martha 
Ellen,  positively. 

Her  mistress  was  as  positive.  "  It  is  entirely  too  heavy  for  you  to 
lift  alone,"  she  said.  "  If  you  know  where  it  is,  I  am  coming  with 
you  to  help  you." 

They  went  together  down  a  narrow  corridor  that  turned  abruptly 
several  times,  Martha  Ellen  in  front  with  a  candle  that  died  out  to  a 
blue  splutter  in  the  many  draughts. 

Following  this  elfish  light,  Barbara  found  herself  at  last  in  the 
nursery  of  her  childhood.  She  looked  upward  and  remembered  the 
very  cracks  in  the  plaster  ceiling :  there  was  the  identical  one  that  she 
had  thought  resembled  the  profile  of  George  Washington  on  the 
postage-stamps.  Underneath  it  stood  the  brass  cot.  It  was  some 
what  tarnished,  and  the  bows  of  pale-blue  ribbon  that  enlivened  its 
head-piece  were  decidedly  draggled.  She  untied  them  mechanically 
and  rolled  them  around  her  fingers,  while  Martha  Ellen  took  off  the 
unsheeted  mattresses.  How  long  it  was  since  she  had  slept  in  that  gay 
little  bed  !  There  is  nothing  that  makes  us  seem  so  unreal,  so  unfamil 
iar  to  ourselves,  as  some  pleasant  child-possession  seen  unexpectedly  in 
"nhappy  womanhood. 

She  kneeled  long  beside  it  that  night,  with  palms  pressed  hard 
against  her  eyes,  forgetting  to  pray,  in  a  great,  struggling  effort  to 
imagine  herself  once  more  a  child,  pleading  for  her  pony's  tail  to 
"  grow  as  long  as  before  the  calf  chewed  it,"  for  "  Mammy  to  be  white 
in  heaven,"  for  "  Satan  to  be  forgiven  after  a  long,  long,  long  time," 
for  herself  to  be  made  a  "good  little  girl  and  not  so  cross  with 
Agnes." 

At  first  she  was  not  conscious  of  any  especial  emotion,  as  she  bent 
against  the  cold  linen  of  the  turned-back  bedclothes ;  she  had  no  par 
ticular  sensation  either  of  happiness  or  unhappiness ;  but  presently  vast 
waves  of  passionate  regret,  and  longing,  and  rebellion,  surged  over  her, 
each  one,  as  it  swelled  and  formed,  more  vast  and  annihilating  than 
the  other.  The  undertow  seemed  dragging  her  down,  down.  God's 
imagined  face  took  on  a  horrible  grinning.  The  ministering  angels 
seemed  deformed  creatures  who  writhed,  and  twisted,  and  uttered  wan 
ton  gigglings  as  they  circled  about  the  Throne  after  the  fashion  of  the 


THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  439 

witches  in  "  Macbeth"  about  the  caldron.  Nothing  seemed  good ;  noth 
ing  seemed  kind.  She  could  not  even  think  of  her  husband  as  having 
existed.  He  was  a  mere  mass  of  repulsive  formlessness  in  a  slimy 
wedge  of  earth ;  perhaps  he  was  not  even  that.  She  imagined  his 
ghastly  skeleton  tricked  out  in  all  the  mockery  of  fashionable  attire. 
What  delightful,  smart,  of-the- world- worldly  coats  he  had  worn  ! 
Why,  if  he  were  a  skeleton  now,  one  could  see  his  tailor's  name  in 
gilt  letters  through  his  spinal  column  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
She  had  laughed  silently  at  first,  then  in  a  choking  whisper,  then  in  a 
ringing  peal  of  sound  that  clashed  through  the  silent  house,  chilling 
the  blood  in  Martha  Ellen's  rigid,  black  body. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  go  to  her  mistress.  She  sat  up  on  the 
pallet  where  she  was  sleeping  for  the  night,  folded  herself  in  her  own 
embrace,  and  muttered  between  her  clacking  teeth, — 

"  Miss  Barb'ra  done  gone  mad  !  she  done  gone  mad  !  /  dunno 
what  tuh  do  !  Gord  knows  I  dunno  what  tuh  do  !"  Then  all  as  sud 
denly  the  laughter  ceased. 

There  seemed  to  Barbara  to  be  some  glowing,  resplendent  presence 
about  her,  lifting  up  her  heart  as  it  were  with  both  hands.  She  took 
down  her  palms  from  her  strained  eyes,  and  stared  into  the  almost 
absolute  gloom.  She  even  reached  out  her  arms  into  it.  The  dark 
ness  seemed  to  cling  about  her.  Little,  every-day  noises  distracted  her 
attention, — the  snap  of  the  dying  fire  as  it  settled  among  its  ashes,  the 
lull  and  sough  of  an  awakening  wind  through  the  branches  of  the  tulip- 
trees,  the  noise  that  a  mouse  made  dragging  some  little  thing  along 
the  floor.  She  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet,  and  cowered  shivering  down 
among  the  icy  sheets.  Again  she  held  out  her  arms.  The  pressure  of 
a  warm,  curly  head  against  her  breast  was  with  her  as  an  actuality. 

"  Oh,  Val,"  she  whispered, — "  oh,  Val !  Oh,  darling, — mine  ! — 
mine ! — mine !  Touch  me,  come  to  me,  here  in  the  darkness, — here 
where  you  used  to  love  me.  I  will  not  be  afraid, — no,  not  the  least, 
not  the  least.  Oh  !  God — God  !  he  does  not  hear  me  !  he  cannot  hear 
me  !  he  does  not  care  any  more." 

She  flung  herself  half  out  of  her  childhood's  bed  upon  the  large  one 
of  carved  mahogany  near  which  it  stood,  sobbing,  shuddering,  kissing 
wildly  the  silken  coverlet  and  pillows  that  rose  softly  through  the  thick 
firelight,  so  finally  slept,  worn  out,  desolate,  chilled  to  the  very  core 
of  soul  and  body. 

II. 

Rosemary  was  one  of  those  old  Virginia  houses  which  have  not 
been  desecrated  with  modern  furniture,  as  gray  hair  with  hair-dye. 
Its  rooms  were  gloomy  in  contour  and  atmosphere,  but  cheered  by 
bright  hangings  and  flowers,  like  an  old  face  with  smiles.  The  house 
of  deep-red  brick  showed  in  sanguine  streaks  through  tangled  vines, 
something  after  the  fashion  in  which  a  Nereid's  face  might  blush  behind 
her  veil  of  verdant  hair.  There  were  many  old  portraits  in  the  large 
hall,  as  darkly  ruddy  in  color  as  the  outer  walls  of  the  mansion  which 
they  adorned.  An  old  spinet  stood  in  the  music-room,  from  which 
instrument  Miss  Fridiswig  used  to  coax  forth  ghastly  jinking*  (this 


440  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADf 

spin et  could  not  utter  anything  so  liquid  as  a  jingle)  on  Sunday  after 
noons. 

It  was  a  most  lovely  old  place  to  die  in,  but  not,  assuredly,  one  in 
which  to  live.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  loneliness  even  about  its 
vegetable  life  which  seemed  depressing.  Its  trees,  with  the  exception 
of  the  tulip- poplars  and  acacias,  were  all  mateless,  not  two  of  any  kind. 
Its  flowers  did  not  grow  socially  in  beds,  but  here  and  there  through 
out  the  tangled  grass.  The  very  stalks  of  corn  in  the  kitchen-garden 
leaned  away  from  each  other.  There  was  one  dog,  one  cat,  one  horse, 
one  vehicle  which  Miss  Fridiswig  called  a  carry-all,  and  one  aged  black 
to  drive  it.  Barbara  preferred  walking,  to  this  means  of  locomotion, 
and  was  sometimes  out  from  early  morning  until  the  woods  were  full 
of  lean  shadows,  that  seemed  as  hungry  as  herself. 

With  what  an  appetite  she  used  to  return  to  Rosemary !  She  some 
times  drank  three  cups  of  tea,  and  ate  two  partridges,  together  with 
numberless  biscuits,  for  supper.  Miss  Fridiswig,  after  having  asserted 
on  several  occasions  that  she  would  "  ruin  her  stummick,"  considered 
an  unpleasant  duty  to  have  been  performed,  and  refrained  from  further 
remark.  Miss  Fridiswig  was  amiable  and  unobtrusive,  and,  when  she 
did  not  perform  on  the  spinet,  Barbara  liked  to  think  that  she  was 
in  the  house. 

October  in  Eden  could  not  have  been  more  perfect  than  October  in 
Virginia, — indeed,  far  less  so,  as  the  ever- verdant  leaves  in  that  garden 
could  never  have  fallen  brownly  to  the  ground  and  so  rustled  almost  to 
the  very  knees  of  a  person  walking  through  them. 

During  these  autumnal  rambles,  Barbara  seemed  to  leave  her 
wedded  self  at  Rosemary,  and  to  pursue  her  maiden  self  with  all  the 
sweet  if  sad  persistency  of  a  Dryad  seeking  her  forsaken  tree. 

It  was  as  if  Happiness  lurked  somewhere  in  the  golden-glad  depths 
of  those  many-stemmed  woods,  waiting  only  for  the  clasp  upon  her 
kissing  wings. 

A  sudden  resolve  one  day  took  possession  of  Barbara.  It  occurred 
to  her  while  putting  on  her  gloomy  bonnet  of  heaviest  crape.  She 
tossed  it  from  her  with  a  sudden  resolve,  and  unwound  the  severe 
plaits  of  her  copper-brown  hair,  allowing  them  to  curl  richly  into  a 
floating  background  for  the  clear  but  vivid  pallor  of  her  face.  Ten 
years  appeared  to  have  fallen  from  her  with  that  burnished  coronal. 
The  airy  grace  of  girlhood  seemed  entangled  in  her  airy  tresses.  She 
then  as  hastily  put  off  her  sombre  gown,  and,  going  to  an  old  press, 
felt  along  its  shelves  until  she  had  brought  to  light  several  articles,  in 
which  she  began  to  dress  herself.  Her  toilet  accomplished,  she  looked 
like  a  girl  of  sixteen  who  had  gotten  herself  up  in  as  near  emulation 
of  some  favorite  brother  as  possible.  This  boyish  costume  consisted  of 
a  dark-blue  flannel  shirt,  a  short,  clay-stained  corduroy  skirt,  a  leather 
belt,  a  pair  of  chamois-skin  shooting-gaiters,  and  a  pair  of  stout  laced 
boots. 

She  gave  one  fleeting  glance  at  herself  in  the  toilet-glass,  and  then, 
pulling  on  a  dark-blue  Tarn  O'Shanter  as  she  ran,  fled  from  the  room, 
down-stairs,  out  of  door,  far  into  the  wind-stirred  forest. 

She  sank  at  last  upon  a  fallen  tree,  and  glanced,  panting  gayly,  ai 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  441 

t.ie  beauty  surrounding  her.  A  flying  squirrel  whirred  past  her  head, 
and,  alighting  on  a  bole  just  beyond  her,  began  its  light,  scratching 
ascent.  A  ground-swell  of  wind,  as  it  were,  just  lifted  the  overlapping 
leaves  about  her  feet ;  while  she  could  hear  the  occasional  patter  of  an 
acorn  in  the  gold-barred  silence  to  right  and  left,  like  the  intermittent 
tick  of  some  genial  old  clock,  that  disliked  to  tell  more  constantly 
the  passing  of  such  glorious  hours. 

There  was  a  soft  blue  haze  lying  close  to  the  forest-floor,  through 
which  its  boles  and  undergrowth  darted  blackly  upward,  like  figures 
from  some  tremendous  witch-smoke,  and  a  trail  of  Virginia  creeper 
spurting  redly  across  the  foreground  suggested  the  blood-spurt  from 
the  victim  in  the  unholy  sacrifice. 

Barbara  rested  movelessly,  absorbing  the  beauty  about  her  through 
the  very  pores  of  her  soul.  The  roots  of  the  fallen  tree  against  which 
she  leaned,  reaching  crookedly  towards  a  bough  of  golden  maple  leaves 
overhead,  reminded  her  of  the  fingers  of  a  miser  scooped  to  clutch  his 
gold.  She  laughed  with  a  sudden  whim. 

"  You  shall  have  it !"  she  said,  springing  out  and  grasping  the 
bough,  which  she  shook  back  and  forth  with  all  her  strong  young 
might.  She  was  an  enchanting  Danae  under  the  shower  of  gold 
leaves,  the  supple  lines  of  her  strained  figure  melting  into  the  vapor 
ous  blue-gray  of  the  wood  beyond,  her  eyes  laughing  above  the 
unusual  carmine  in  her  cheeks. 

It  seemed  a  pity  that  the  only  witness  to  this  ravishing  scene  should 
be  a  little  darky,  with  an  embarrassing  paucity  of  breeches,  and  a 
-agged  coat  which  trained  upon  the  ground  behind. 

He  paused,  grasping  a  young  sapling  which  he  was  dragging  after 
him,  and  gazed  up  at  Barbara,  who,  pausing  also,  gazed  down  at  him. 
He  was  short  and  wizened,  and  had  narrow,  blue-black  feet,  upon  which 
he  stood  gingerly,  the  yellow-lined  great  toes  curled  heavenward.  His 
oily  eyes  were  small,  his  countenance  a  dense  bitumen  hue,  his  inner 
lips,  hanging  outward  with  astonishment,  of  a  pale,  moist  pink,  like 
that  of  a  toadstool  rained  upon.  He  was  impish  and  uncouth  even 
for  a  little  nigger,  and  looked  like  a  crayon  sketch  after  a  painting  of 
Robin  Good  fellow. 

"  How-d'e-do  ?"  said  Barbara. 

He  replied  with  the  staccato  precision  of  a  telegraph  machine, — 

"  I'se  fus'-rate.     How's  yo'se'f  ?" 

"  Thanks,  I  am  in  excellent  health  also,"  replied  Barbara.  "  "Will 
you  tell  me  where  you  are  going  ?" 

"  Chissnuts,"  said  the  imp,  laconically. 

"  Chestnuts  !"  echoed  Barbara.  She  loosed  the  maple  bough,  which 
swung  in  stately  nudity  to  its  accustomed  place,  and  came  forwaid 
dusting  lightly  together  her  gloved  palms.  The  knotty  miser-roots 
were  now  full  of  the  plenteous  gold,  and  she  looked  back  at  them  over 
her  shoulder  and  smiled,  before  addressing  the  boy,  to  whom  presently 
she  said,  in  a  pleasant  voice, — 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  with  you,  Robin  Goodfellow  ?" 

"  'Tain't  my  name,  he  answered,  with  the  same  brevity  which  had 
heretofore  distinguished  his  remarks. 


442  THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1 

"  No,  but  it  is  my  name  for  you,"  said  Barbara,  gravely.  "  What 
have  you  to  say  to  that  ?" 

He  lowered  one  of  his  taut  big  toes,  and  burrowed  with  it  in  the 
soft  loam. 

"  Nothin',"  he  finally  announced. 

"  Shall  I  come  with  you  ?" 

"  Ef  yuh  wants." 

"  I  do  want.     I  want  some  chestnuts." 

At  this  the  imp  grinned  cunningly.  "  Yuh'll  have  tuh  pay  fuh 
'em,  den,"  said  he. 

"  I'll  do  that  now,"  returned  Barbara,  taking  a  quarter  from  a 
netted  puree,  which  she  always  carried  for  this  very  purpose. 

His  little  eyes  seemed  to  dart  towards  it  like  those  of  a  crab,  and 
he  drew  a  swift  tongue  over  both  podgy  lips,  with  the  air  of  a  gourm,el 
regarding  a  well-cooked  ortolan,  while  the  cunning  look  on  his  face 
increased  in  proportion  as  the  grin  vanished. 

"  You  gimme  dat  fus',  'n'  den  I'll  thrash  de  tree  fuh  yuh,"  he 
suggested. 

"  You  thrash  the  tree  for  me  first,  and  then  I'll  give  you  this/' 
replied  Barbara,  firmly. 

"All  ri',"  he  said,  a  certain  glaze  which  avarice  had  spread  like  a 
coat  of  varnish  over  his  black  skin  vanishing,  to  leave  it  as  dully 
grimy  as  before. 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  your  name  ?"  Barbara  asked,  as  she  walked 
Seside  him  on  their  way  to  the  chestnut-tree. 

"  Mos'  anythin'." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  as  a  rule?" 

"  Mh  ?"  said  the  child. 

"  What  does  your  mother  call  you  ?" 

" '  Honey'  when  she's  please',  'n'  '  you  Satan'  when  she  ain'." 

"  Hadn't  you  rather  be  called  Robin  Goodfellow  than  Satan?" 

« I  don'  keer." 

"  If  I  give  you  this  quarter  and  another  for  the  chestnuts,  will  you 
answer  when  I  call  you  Robin  Goodfellow  ?" 

"  Mh— mh." 

She  put  the  quarter  in  his  upreached  palm,  and  he  transferred  it 
thence  to  one  of  his  cheeks,  the  monkey-like  pouch  where  a  young 
negro  carries  most  of  his  valuables.  It  made  an  eerie  clinking  against 
his  teeth  as  he  talked ;  and  when  she  finally  bade  him  good-by  and 
gave  him  the  other  quarter,  he  tucked  it  away  in  the  opposite  cheek. 

Barbara  was  so  pleased  with  this  unique  and  non-committal  young 
imp  that  she  took  him  shortly  into  her  service.  He  carried  her  easel 
and  color-box  when  she  sketched,  and  occupied  the  back  seat  of  her 
Canadian  fishing-wagon  when  she  drove.  During  her  day-long  ram 
bles  he  was  nearly  always  to  be  seen  trotting  at  her  heels,  and  he  slept 
on  a  bearskin  rug  just  outside  of  her  door.  She  had  at  first  attempted 
to  dress  him  picturesquely,  but  the  result  was  not  encouraging.  When 
Beauregard  Walsingham  (for  such  Barbara  discovered  to  be  his  real 
name)  first  beheld  himself  in  his  mistress's  mirror,  thus  attired,  he 
gave  vent  to  a  choked  howl  of  dismay  and  anger,  and  fled  to  the  linen- 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  443 

closet.  From  thence  he  was  imearthed,  not  too  gently,  by  Ramesea, 
who  had  no  liking  for  him,  and  usually  spoke  of  him  as  "  that  limb," 
having  declared  him  to  be  "  ez  ugly  ez  home-made  sin  'n'  ez  black  as 
the  hinges  uv  midnight." 

On  being  asked  the  cause  of  his  excitement,  Beauregard  replied 
that  he  "  wa'n't  no  circus  clown,  en  folks  done  think  he  cuujud  (con 
jured)  if  he  war  dem  dar  things." 

Barbara  attempted  to  reason  with  him,  but  it  was  useless ;  and  she 
at  last  adopted  a  stern  and  superior  pose,  and  had  the  butler  place  him 
bodily  on  the  back  seat  of  the  fishing- wagon.  He  sat  there,  it  is  true, 
but  the  fixed  war-light  in  his  greasy  eyes  was  ominous. 

His  duty  on  these  occasions  was  to  open  the  many  gates  which  dis 
tinguish  Albemarle  neighborhoods.  The  first  one  on  this  afternoon 
gave  almost  directly  upon  the  brawlings  of  Machunk  Creek,  and  after 
Barbara  had  driven  through,  and  was  waiting  for  him  to  resume  his 
place  behind  her,  he  turned  abruptly,  and,  with  respectful  but  dogged 
determination,  waded  out  into  the  middle  of  the  stream,  cast  himself 
upon  his  scarlet-sashed  little  stomach,  and  rolled.  A  muddy  unity  of 
tone  was  the  result.  Barbara  looked  ahead  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
until  he  began  to  climb  into  the  cart ;  she  then  informed  him  that  he 
was  to  follow  on  foot  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  she  made  the  occasion 
live  forever  in  his  memory  by  driving  eight  miles.  It  probably  kept 
him  from  taking  cold,  but  it  also  subdued  his  dauntless  spirit,  because, 
although  he  made  no  signs  of  giving  in,  when  liameses  girded  his  loins 
next  day  with  another  as  brilliant  sash,  he  wore  it  meekly  until  Barbara 
herself  removed  it  before  he  went  to  bed. 

Having  conquered,  she,  woman-like,  bestowed  upon  him  that  for 
which  he  had  fought, — namely,  an  ordinary  costume,  composed  of  dark 
brown  cloth  and  silver  buttons.  So  closely  did  this  attire  fit,  and  so 
perfectly  did  it  match  young  Walsmgham's  complexion,  that  at  a  little 
distance  he  looked  like  a  brou/e  nudity  picked  out  with  silver. 

He  was  a  strange,  subtle  little  creature,  of  few  words  and  secretive 
habits.  He  had  a  melancholy  instrument  upon  which  he  used  to  play 
u  Home,  Sweet  Home."  Rameses  called  it  a  "  mouth-harp,"  and  it 
used  to  set  all  the  dogs  howling, — for  Barbara  had  bought  two  grey 
hound  pups,  which  she  was  training. 

Between  the  spinet  and  the  mouth-harp,  Barbara  was  sometimes 
very  miserable ;  but  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  separate  Beau- 
regard  from  the  one  object  of  his  affection,  which  actually  slept  in  his 
dusky  bosom  every  night. 

Her  girlhood's  costume,  once  adopted,  was  worn  as  a  constancy,  the 
walks  which  she  took  being  of  too  wild  and  secluded  a  nature  to  subject 
her  to  remark  from  any  of  the  neighbors.  She  resembled  the  heroine 
of  a  witch-tale,  figuring  all  the  week  as  a  bright-eyed,  wild-haired 
brownie,  and  becoming  on  the  Sabbath  a  sad,  unspeaking  woman,  with 
demure  dark  lids  over  eyes  yet  more  demure  and  dark. 

During  those  vagrant  autumn  days  she  became  mistress  of  a  rare 
art,  that  of  controlling  her  thoughts.  She  found  that  by  a  tiemendous 
effort  she  could  whistle  them  to  fist  and  keep  them  hooded  there,  so  that, 
although  they  fretted  and  shook  their  bells,  they  did  not  soar  away  into 


444  THE   QUICK  OR    TEE   DEADf 

the  open  and  bring  down  unsavory  winged  things  which  she  would 
rather  remained  a-wing.  Those  first,  horrible  imaginings  haunted  her 
no  more.  Her  husband  was  with  her  now  as  the  glad-eyed  lover  of 
her  young  wifehood.  She  remembered  his  rollicking  laughter,  recalled 
the  movements  of  his  eyes,  walked  often  with  the  very  warmness  of  his 
arm  about  her  body.  She  would  not  allow  herself  to  think  of  the  com 
ing  snow,  and  her  life  seemed  a  supportable  waiting,  a  not  altogether  sad 
wandering  after  something  which  at  length  she  would  discover. 

She  returned  one  evening  far  into  the  orange- l>elted  radiance  of  the 
heavy  twilight.  There  were  boughs  of  glowing  leaves  about  her 
shoulders,  which  framed  her  face  as  though  in  reality  she  were  a 
Dryad,  looking  through  the  screen  of  her  guarding  foliage,  and  she 
held  the  greyhounds  in  a  light  leash,  singing,  as  she  walked,  parts  of  a 
song  that  her  husband  had  especially  liked : 

"  Bravo  1  Bravo !  Punchinello  I 
Bravo,  Pun-chi-ne-ell-o  I" 

She  had  not  a  strong  voice,  but  it  was  clear  and  carried  well,  and  was 
pleasant  to  drowsy  ears, — a  twilight  and  firelight  voice, — one  in  which 
to  sing  elf-songs,  and  ghostly  ditties,  or  some  such  lay  as  this  story  of 
Punchinello. 

As  she  came  up  the  long,  narrow  lawn,  overbent  by  tall  acacias, 
she  could  see  the  wavering  glare  of  a  large  fire  in  the  drawing-room. 
How  often  she  and  Valentine  had  hailed  that  leaping,  twisting  light 
on  their  home-coming  after  just  such  walks  !  She  ceased  suddenly  to 
sing,  and  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  rank  grass,  while  the  greyhounds 
leaped  awkwardly  upon  her,  having  no  instinct  to  tell  them  when 
women  kneel  for  prayer  and  when  for  play.  She  had  been  thrilled 
with  a  possessing  sense  of  his  nearness  :  he  was  about  her,  close  against 
her  with  the  other  impalpable  essences  of  this  still,  gold-gray  evening. 
The  light  in  the  drawing-room  died  down,  almost  went  out,  then  leaped 
higher  than  ever:  some  one  had  thrown  on  more  wood.  Kneeling 
there  on  the  windy  lawn  had  chilled  and  dispirited  her.  She  rose  to 
her  feet,  still  grasping  the  gay  leaf-masses,  and  entered  the  house. 

With  her  hand  on  the  drawing-room  door,  she  paused.  It  seemed 
as  though  an  actual  force  was  urging  her  away ;  and  yet  there  was  no 
one  there.  She  turned  and  looked  first  over  one  shoulder,  then  over 
the  other,  with  a  bird-swift  gesture.  No  one.  The  puppies  left  out 
side  were  whining  and  scratching  for  admittance.  She  hesitated,  think 
ing  for  a  moment  that  she  would  let  them  in,  but  some  strange  feeling 
withheld  her.  Then  tossing  wide  the  door  with  an  impetuous  move 
ment,  she  went  rushingly  into  the  very  middle  of  the  room,  where  she 
regretted  her  impulsiveness,  for  she  saw  that  a  man  was  standing  before 
the  fire.  He  was  bending  slightly  towards  the  blaze  and  scooping  his 
Lands  to  it, — a  very  ordinary  gesture,  but  one  that  hurt  her.  A  man 
may  be  individual  even  in  his  method  of  warming  his  hands,  and  this 
was  her  husband's  gesture. 

During  the  moment  in  which  this  knowledge  pierced  her  heart,  the 
man  saw  her,  and  came  forward.  She  began  to  think  that  she  was  in  a 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1  445 

dream, — the  figure,  the  step,  the  pose,  were  so  identically  her  husband's ; 
but  the  greatest  shock  of  all  was  when  he  spoke. 

"  You  must  be  Barbara/'  was  what  he  said,  and  the  voice  was  Val^s 
voice.  The  room  swung  about,  and  the  fire  leaped  forward  to  meet  her. 
She  put  out  her  hand,  letting  fall  the  red  leaves  which  she  still  held. 
The  man  who  had  spoken  with  her  husband's  voice  now  supported  her 
to  a  chair  with  the  very  trick  of  arm  that  he  had  been  wont  to  use. 
She  shut  her  eyes,  fearing  absolutely  to  look  up,  and  put  out  both 
hands,  as  though  to  push  him  from  her,  while  he  kneeled  to  place  a 
footstool  under  her  feet,  and  then  rose  and  slipped  a  cushion  between 
her  head  and  the  stiif  chair-back.  During  these  different  movements 
he  uttered  various  disjointed  sentences :  "  So  sorry !  Ought  to  have 
waited.  Ought  to  have  rung  for  lights.  Firelight  confused  you.  By 
the  way,  I'm  Jock, — Val's  cousin,  you  know.  He  told  me  so  much 
— I — I  mean  I've  heard  so  much  about  you, — feel  as  if  I  knew  you, 
you  know.  Are  you  all  right  now  ?  Do  look  at  me  :  it'll  steady  you. 
There's — there's  a  strong  likeness." 

"  I  had  rather  rest  a  little, — thank  you  so  much,"  said  Barbara. 
The  firelight  through  her  hot  lids  made  them  seem  like  live  coals  rest 
ing  upon  her  eyes,  while  her  mind  and  body  seemed  to  sweep  in  circles 
like  a  bird  at  poise.  He  had  unconsciously  named  the  very  thing  that 
she  dreaded.  Were  this  "  strong  likeness "  of  feature  as  marked  as 
every  other,  she  thought  that  endurance  would  be  impossible.  She 
ventured  to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  hand  resting  on  her  chair-arm :  it 
might  have  been  thrust  from  the  grave.  She  gave  a  sobbing  cry  and 
etarted  to  her  feet.  Dering  rose  also,  startled  and  alarmed. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said.     "  Shall  I  call  your  maid  ?" 

"  I  will  call  her,"  said  Barbara ;  "  I  will  call  her."  She  flew  past 
him  to  the  door,  passed  through  it,  and  was  gone. 

Deriug's  sensations  were  not  enviable.  He  walked  to  the  fire  and 
began  to  warm  his  hands  again. 

"  I  flatter  myself  that  I  know  something  about  men,"  he  said, 
rather  grumpily,  "  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  a  thing  about  women." 
He  then  nestled  down  with  a  boyish  movement  of  entire  content  into  the 
chair  that  Barbara  had  abandoned,  and  waited  for  further  developments. 

Nothing  occurred  until  half  an  hour  later,  when  Barbara  herself 
re-entered  the  room.  He  scarcely  knew  her  at  first,  in  her  long  black 
crape  gown,  with  her  diadem  of  lustrous  braids  replaced,  and  he  won 
dered,  as  he  took  the  hand  which  she  now  held  out,  if  she  were  ever 
going  to  lift  her  lids. 

"  She's  handsome,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but  she's  too  blonde  and 
too  big.  Her  waist's  too  big — no,  it's  her  shoulders — no,  she's  all  too 
big.  Her  hair's  too  red — no,  there's  too  much  of  it — no,  it's  the  way 
she  wears  it." 

Barbara,  who  was  very  apt  at  such  things,  did  not  rightly  fathom 
his  thoughts  on  this  occasion.  She  believed  that  he  was  pondering  on 
her  pallor  and  red  lids,  and  wondering  if  she  had  been  enough  in  love 
with  his  cousin  to  justify  such  a  quantity  of  crape.  If  acknowledged 
beauties  could  itnow  the  thoughts  of  most  men  when  first  introduced 
to  them,  there  would  not  be  so  much  vanity  in  the  world. 


446  THE  QUICK   OR    THE  DEAD1 

Barbara,  who  was  an  acknowledged  beauty,  did  not  strike  any 
responsive  chord  in  Dering  until  she  turned  him  her  profile  in  settling 
the  folds  of  her  dress.  It  was  vigorous,  classic,  enthralling,  and  he 
admitted  as  much  to  himself  while  regarding  it. 

"  Good  brow,"  he  meditated  ;  "  good  nose  ;  good  line  of  lips, — well 
balanced,  upper  and  lower  equal ;  good  chin,  splendid  chin,  massive, 
but  not  heavy.  Lots  of  will-power, — no  end  to  it." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  said  Barbara.  She  did  not  look  at  him, 
and  held  a  hand-screen  between  the  flames  and  her  face,  so  that  he 
could  no  longer  see  it. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dering,  resuming  his  nestling  position. 

Suddenly  Barbara  laughed. 

"  You  remind  me  of  a  dog  turning  around  before  he  lies  down," 
she  said,  in  explanation. 

"  Lots  of  people  have  said  that,"  he  replied,  easily,  laughing  also. 

Barbara  winced  a  little,  and  the  light  died  from  her  eyes.  She  had 
heard  a  great  deal  of  Jock  Dering,  and  was  prepared  to  like  him  most 
heartily,  but  if  he  continued  to  speak  to  her  in  her  husband's  very 
voice,  how  was  she  to  bear  it  ?  They  talked  a  little  in  a  desultory 
way,  and  presently  a  half-burned  log  fell  crashing  down  upon  the 
hearth.  As  Dering  stooped  to  replace  it,  Barbara  involuntarily  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  He  was  startled  by  the  soft  huddling  against  him 
of  her  unconscious  body. 

III. 

The  extraordinary  likeness  which  John  Dering  bore  to  his  dead 
cousin  Valentine  Pomfret  was  one  of  those  rare  but  not  fictitious  freaks 
in  which  heredity  sometimes  indulges.  Twin  brothers  are  often  less 
alike  than  had  been  those  two  young  men,  and  the  fact  that  Dering 
was  Pomfret's  junior  by  a  few  years  was  overcome  by  the  further  fact 
that  for  a  few  years  poor  Pomfret  had  been  dead ;  Barbara  therefore 
beheld  in  the  Dering  of  to-day  the  exact  reproduction  of  her  husband 
of  three  years  ago.  Voice,  gesture,  figure,  and  face  were  all  identical. 
There  was  the  same  curling  brown  hair  above  a  square,  strongly- 
modelled  forehead ;  eyes  the  color  of  autumn  pools  in  sunlight ;  the 
determined  yet  delicate  jut  of  the  nose ;  the  pleasing  unevenness  in  the 
crowded  white  teeth,  and  the  fine  jaw  which  had  that  curve  from  ear 
to  tip  like  the  prow  of  a  cutter.  An  unusual  face,  one  in  which  every 
new  acquaintance  would  not  be  apt  to  recall  hints  of  some  friend  or 
relative. 

In  manner  he  was  delightful, — abrupt,  frank,  original,  and  a  trifle 
egotistical :  in  a  word,  Valentine  Pomfret  over  again. 

Barbara,  who  had  not  of  course  distinguished  these  further  similari 
ties  between  the  quick  and  the  dead,  was  sufficiently  overcome  by  the 
physical  likeness.  Its  memory  swept  over  her,  now  with  a  species  of 
horror,  now  with  a  sort  of  joy.  She  was  in  turns  flooded  with  rapture 
at  having  seen  again  her  husband's  face,  and  torn  with  an  impotent 
rage  that  any  human  creature  should  dare  to  move  and  have  his  being 
in  so  exact  a  similitude  of  that  dear  body.  She  experienced  the  feeling, 
intensified  a  hundred  times,  which  rends  a  mother  in  seeing  some  care- 


THE    qUICK   OR    THE  DEAD?  447 

less  friend  or  sister  flaunting  the  garments  of  her  dead  child.  Now  she 
yearned  for  another  sight  of  the  dear  face ;  now  she  flung  the  idea  from 
her  as  utterly  unnatural  and  abhorrent.  She  snatched  Val's  miniature, 
warm  with  her  bosom,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  then  opened  the  thin 
gold  case,  and  hungrily  fed  upon  its  every  tint  and  contour.  When  she 
finally  dropped  it  back  beneath  her  gown,  the  case,  having  grown  cold 
in  the  air,  startled  her  flesh,  as  a  certain  fact  had  startled  her  mind 
while  gazing  upon  the  portrait  within.  His  pictured  face  was  not  so 
much  like  him  as  was  the  face  of  his  cousin,  John  Dering  !  She  was 
in  her  bedroom,  and  alone,  so  did  not  forbear  to  cry  out,  and  moan, 
and  talk  to  herself  in  panting  fragments,  as  she  swept  about  the  room, 
taking  first  a  vibrating  stride  or  two,  then  leaning  against  some  piece  of 
furniture  and  pressing  away  the  hair  from  her  face  with  both  hands ; 
then  crouching  and  trembling  with  hidden  eyes,  or  rushing  from  wall 
to  wall  with  all  the  restrained,  breathless  eagerness  of  some  prisoned, 
pantherish  creature  whose  efforts  for  freedom  had  long  been  vain. 

As  she  flung  herself  exhausted  into  an  arm-chair  near  the  fire,  the 
wide  sleeve  of  her  dressing-gown  fell  back,  revealing  the  smooth  flesh 
of  her  arm,  stained  violet  here  and  there  by  the  rich  veins. 

She  bent,  uttering  a  sharp,  inarticulate  cry,  and  carassed  it  with  slow 
movements  of  her  cheek.  She  remembered  how  he  had  loved  to  kiss  her 
delicate,  inner  arm  when  dressed  in  this  very  gown,  and  even  as  she 
emiled  for  the  dear  memory  there  came  upon  her,  with  a  surge  of  re 
bellion  and  revolt,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  now  above  such  fleshly 
pleasures ;  that  he  would  not  now  care  for  any  of  the  sweet,  warm, 
trivial  things  for  which  he  had  once  cared  so  passionately.  She  leaped 
up,  lifting  her  hands  high  above  her  head  and  pressing  them  agonizedly 
together.  She  tried  to  realize  that  he  was  a  spirit,  a  purified  essence,  a 
soul  merely ;  and  as  the  idea  took  shape  within  her,  she  shrank  from 
and  loathed  it,  then  fell  into  bitter  human  weeping,  sometimes  pleading 
for  death,  sometimes  asking  that  God  would  work  only  His  will  with 
her. 

Dering,  who  was  happily  ignorant  of  the  effect  which  his  appearance 
had  produced,  allied  again  the  next  afternoon,  to  inquire  for  her  health, 
but  was  told  that  she  had  gone  to  walk.  He  remained  for  some  time, 
hoping  that  she  would  return,  but  took  his  leave  after  an  hour,  wonder- 
hag  somewhat  that  a  woman  who  fainted  so  easily  should  trust  herself 
alone  on  such  long  walks.  The  next  time  he  saw  her  was  in  the  heart 
of  an  oak-plantation  called  the  "  Tarleton  Woods."  He  had  plunged 
recklessly  into  its  unknown  vistas  after  a  covey  of  partridges,  and  had 
fancied  himself  lost,  until  he  came  upon  Barbara. 

She  was  seated  high  above  him  in  the  crotch  of  an  old  tree,  and  the 
full  light  fell  upon  her  in  splashes  through  the  leaves,  like  an  overflow 
of  some  bright  liquid.  The  greyhounds  were  whimpering  and  scratch 
ing  at  the  bole  of  the  tree,  and  she  teased  them  by  swinging  the  loop  of 
their  leash  just  out  of  reach. 

Dering  spoke  when  within  a  few  yards  of  her.  "  So  glad  you  are 
all  right !"  he  cried,  boyishly.  "  I  called  three  times,  but  you  were 
always  out.  You  seem  possessed  of  the  spirit  of  locomotion." 

She  looked  at  him  from  beneath  her  loosened  hair,  and  controlled 
VOL.  XLL— 29 


448  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD 9 

her  voice  successfully  in  replying.  She  said  that  she  was  very  soiry  to 
have  missed  him,  but  that  she  was  generally  out  all  day  in  both  good 
and  bad  weather. 

"  Can't  I  call  in  the  evening,  then  ?"  asked  Dering. 

She  could  not  think  of  any  plausible  excuse,  and  said,  "  Yes." 

"You  don't  say  it  very  cordially,"  he  objected,  but  in  blithe,  un- 
offended  tones.  "  Perhaps  you'd  rather  I  wouldn't  come  ?  Perhaps 
people  bore  you  ?" 

Barbara  could  not  help  laughing.  This  seemed  to  embolden  Dering, 
who  advanced  and  looked  up  at  her.  "  Do  you  know  I  think  we'd  be 
such  good  friends  ?"  he  said,  genially. 

"  Why,  I've  scarcely  spoken  two  words  to  you,"  replied  Barbara. 

"  One  feels  things  sometimes,"  said  Dering,  not  at  all  discomfited. 
"  I  was  sure  I  would  like  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  your  profile." 

"And  how  about  it  now  that  you  have  seen  my  full  face?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  better  and  better.  It  has  a  generous,  sensuous 
breadth  that  is  splendid." 

"  Nothing  else  in  '  ous,'  I  hope  ?"  said  Barbara,  dryly. 

"  Nothing  you  wouldn't  like.  I  see  you  think  me  very  free  and 
easy.  People  often  do." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Barbara,  laughing  again. 

"  Well,  as  long  as  you  aren't  angry  I  don't  car*.  You  laugh  like 
a  sport." 

"  Like  a  what?"  said  Barbara. 

Dering  shifted  his  position,  and  lounged  against  the  tree-trunk. 

"  Yes,  it's  slang,"  he  replied.  "  I've  an  awful  habit  of  using 
slang :  I'm  afraid  I'd  use  it  to  the  Almighty  if  I  were  suddenly  trans 
lated." 

"  You'd  probably  have  to  be  translated  for  him  to  understand," 
began  Barbara,  merrily,  then  stopped  and  colored. 

"  That's  a  dreadfully  bad  pun,"  she  said,  with  humility. 

"  If  you  weren't  up  a  tree  already,  I  wouldn't  spare  you,"  answered 
Dering. 

"  That's  much  worse  than  mine." 

"  I  know  it :  I  did  it  on  purpose.     Are  you  going  to  let  me  call  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course.     Why  do  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  an  odd  fellow.  I  fancied  you  had  taken  a 
dislike  to  me." 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  asserted  Barbara,  in  a  decided  voice. 

Then  she  grew  very  pale,  and  looked  at  him  strangely.  "  I  will 
explain  what  made  you  believe  that  some  day,"  she  said. 

She  did  not  understand  the  violent  revulsion  of  feeling  which  had 
come  upon  her.  She  was  glad,  delighted,  to  be  looking  at  him.  It 
did  not  shock  her  as  she  had  dreaded.  She  felt  light-hearted  and  gay 
as  she  had  not  hoped  to  feel  any  more.  She  was  only  afraid  that  he 
would  notice  the  absorbed,  thirsting  stare  with  which  her  eyes  returned 
again  and  again  to  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  fix  them  on  other  objects, — 
the  dance  of  the  sunlit  leaves,  the  greyhounds,  a  cardinal-bird  that 
seemed  to  streak  the  veiled  background  with  its  flame-like  flashings. 
In  vain.  Something  of  the  feeling  that  impels  a  wilful  drunkard 


THE   qUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  449 

seized  upon  her.  She  would  intoxicate  her  bodily  self  with  this  long- 
denied  sight ;  she  would  drink  him  into  the  waste  places  of  her  soul 
and  make  memory  green  again ;  she  would — here  a  sudden  shivering 
overtook  her — why  should  she  not  pretend  in  truth  that  he  was  her 
husband?  It  would  be  known  only  to  herself;  an  empty  pleasure;  a 
mere  painting  of  delight ;  heaven  reflected  in  a  pool.  The  shivering 
became  so  violent  that  Dering  noticed  it. 

"  You  are  cold,"  he  exclaimed,  quickly.  "  Don't  you  think  you 
stay  out  too  late  in  these  chilly  autumn  evenings  ?  You  see  the  sun  is 
almost  set." 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,"  said  Barbara. 

He  reached  up  and  swung  her  to  the  ground.  It  was  a  light,  easy 
gesture,  full  of  the  restrained  power  that  women  like.  To  feel  a  strong 
man  minister  to  their  fragile  wants  has  all  the  fascination  of  watching 
a  steam-hammer  employed  in  the  frivolous  occupation  of  cracking 
almonds.  To  see  the  power  that  could  crush  transformed  into  the 
power  that  befriends  is  in  both  cases  blood-stirring.  And  then  his 
strong  shoulders  beneath  her  hands  were  so  like  Val's  shoulders,  and 
the  glint  of  his  smile  Val's  own,  and  his  impetuous  way  of  piloting 
her  over  rough  places, — all  Val's.  She  stopped  suddenly  and  put  up 
her  hands  to  her  throat  with  a  wild  gesture.  Dering  pulled  up  short 
also,  terribly  alarmed,  and  fearing  that  she  was  going  to  faint  again. 
He  could  not  think  what  he  was  to  do  in  these  lonely  woods  on  the 
edge  of  dark  with  a  swooning  woman,  and  a  slight  feeling  of  irritation 
stung  him. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  grasping  her  arm  a  little  roughly,  "you 
don't  feel  faint,  do  you  ?" 

"  No,  no  :  just  stifled  for  a  minute,"  answered  Barbara ;  but  as  they 
walked  on  he  said,  rather  dogmatically,  that  in  her  state  of  health  it 
was  little  short  of  outrageous  for  her  to  be  so  much  alone. 

"  My  state  of  health  !"  cried  Barbara,  feeling  also  irritated.  "  There 
was  never  a  healthier  woman  than  I !" 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Dering,  dryly.  "  You  won't  deny,  perhaps,  that 
there  have  been  more  prudent  ones  ?" 

Barbara  was  silent.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  then  explain  any 
thing  to  him,  and  dragged  him  forward  in  her  eagerness  to  be  out  of 
that  shadow-striped,  many-noised  wood.  Dering's  irritation  vanished 
as  he  felt  the  violent  tremblings  which  swept  her  from  time  to  time. 

IV. 

They  stepped  from  the  shelter  of  the  woods  into  the  teeth  of  a 
brown  gale.  The  hills  lay  in  overlapping  wedges  of  gray-violet 
against  a  long  ribbon  of  wan  light,  the  Scotch  weather-glim.  The 
fields  were  a  seething  reach  of  dark-gray  weeds  and  grasses ;  the  sky  a 
flapping  cloak  of  gray,  blown  back  from  the  shoulders  of  some  invisible 
giantess,  and  the  shadows  on  the  bleached  downs  her  footprints. 

The  wind  blew  in  volumes  bulging  with  fierce  sound.  It  hurled 
Barbara  and  Dering  against  one  another,  and  tore  away  her  hat,  next 
enveloped  them  in  a  sudden  eddy  of  whirling  sticks  and  leaves.  Der 
ing  stooped  his  head  and  shouted, — 


THE       UICK  OR    THE  DEAD1 


"  We  can't  go  on  in  this.  Isn't  there  some  big  tree  we  can  get 
under?" 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  tulip-tree  at  the  foot  of  that  hill,"  shrieked  Bar 
bara,  putting  her  lips  close  to  his  ear. 

He  was  conscious  of  her  warm  breath  amid  all  that  hurly. 

They  then  struggled  down-hill  together,  and  at  the  bottom  were 
confronted  by  a  tearing  stream,  shaggy  with  foam.  He  was  hesitating 
what  method  to  pursue,  when  Barbara  sprang  forward  and  leaped 
deliberately,  first  in  and  then  out  of  the  water,  which  was  at  no  place 
very  deep.  He  followed,  angry  again. 

"  I  never  —  saw  —  such  —  a  —  reckless  —  woman  !"  he  roared.  But 
the  wind  blew  his  words  backward,  and  Barbara  did  not  hear  them. 
She  ran  ahead  and  crouched  down  finally  among  the  overhanging  roots 
of  an  enormous  tree,  and  he  came  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  To 
gether  they  looked  at  the  western  sky.  It  was  one  vast,  ragged  con 
fusion  of  cloud  and  glare.  The  naked  branches  of  the  trees  along  the 
road  knotted  and  unknotted  themselves  angrily,  and  through  them  the 
wind  slithered  and  hissed  like  a  winged  serpent. 

"  You  must  be  bitterly  cold,"  said  Bering.  "  And  your  feet  are 
wet,  too." 

"  No,"  answered  Barbara.  Then  she  turned  her  face  towards  him 
with  its  up-blowing  swirls  of  hair.  He  could  make  out  nothing  dis 
tinctly,  beyond  the  glisten  of  her  eyes  as  the  strange  light  caught  them. 

"  I  like  it,"  she  said.     "  It  rouses  me.     It  stings,  but  it  wakens." 

"  That  is  why  I  like  it,"  responded  Dering,  briefly.  "  It  is  like 
drinking  a  witch-brew,  —  cold  in  the  mouth,  hot  in  the  vitals.  I  wish 
we  could  be  blown  for  a  long  way  over  those  hustling  tree-tops." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  so.  One  cannot  think  much  in  such  an  uproar  except 
such  thoughts  as  it  suggests." 

"  You  mean  one  cannot  hark  backward,"  said  Dering. 

"  Yes.     How  did  you  know  ?" 

"  I  am  beginning  to  feel  your  thoughts  as  they  form." 

"  It  is  the  wind.  I  am  always  full  of  electricity  in  a  wind  like 
this." 

"  I  feel  it.  I  can  tell  you  where  your  hands  are  without  looking 
at  you." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"  One  over  the  other  against  your  breast." 

"  Why,  how  strange  !" 

"  You  see  I  am  different  too  in  the  wind." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  We  are  like  trees.  The  wind  is  our  soul.  It 
blows  life  into  us.  Without  it  we  are  mere  vegetables." 

"  I  can't  think  of  you  as  a  vegetable,"  said  Dering,  and  they 
laughed  a  little.  She  drew  nearer  him  ;  he  could  feel  the  thick  stuff 
of  her  gown  press  against  him  in  the  blurred  gloom.  The  wind 
whirled  around  them,  like  an  invisible  elf  romping. 

"  Your  voice  sounds  so  strange  and  bodiless,"  said  Barbara.  "  I 
can  just  see  you." 

"  And  I  can  just  see  you.     It  is  the  light  of  dreams." 

"  And  of  the  places  after  death.     You  seem  like  a  ghost." 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  451 

"  You  talk  like  one,"  said  Dering.  "  You  are  entirely  different  in 
this  mood  from  what  I  thought  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  that  vividly-colored  people  never  had  gray 
thoughts  ?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  You  see  that  they  do,  though.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  taken 
wine.  I  want  to  talk.  I  want  to  say  many  things  to  you.  They 
surge  up  in  my  mind  as  the  wind  does  in  the  woods  there.  Do  you 
think  me  crazy  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  feel  a  little  crazy  myself.  You  are  like  a  big,  flute- 
voiced  elf-queen  sitting  there  with  only  your  eyes  aglow.  Everything 
has  changed  about  you, — my  ideas  and  all."  He  laughed  again. 

"What  does  it  matter?  Let  us  give  each  other  our  red-hot 
thoughts,  not  wait  for  them  to  cool  to  cinders  in  the  breath  of  con 
ventionality  and  commonplace." 

"  I  will  give  you  one  now,  then." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  like  you." 

"  You  did  not  like  me  at  first,  then  ?" 

"  No ;  I  thought  you  ordinary." 

"  What  has  made  you  change  your  opinion  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  are  really  an  elf-queen." 

"  Was  it  not  the  daughters  of  the  elf-king  who  were  hollow  and 
had  no  hearts  ?" 

"  That  was  because  they  were  stuffed  so  full  of  precious  thoughts 
ihat  some  thief  stole  them,  and  they  gave  their  hearts  away." 

"  Women  never  give  away  their  hearts." 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  They  are  torn  up,  like  the  flowers  of  Eastern  legend,  that  men 
may  find  jewels  at  their  roots." 

"  You  are  a  strange  woman." 

"  You  are  a  strange  man." 

"  If  I  were  a  doctor  I  should  say  you  had  a  fever." 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  had.  See  how  hot  my  hand  is,  and  I  have  my 
glove  off." 

He  took  her  bare  hand  in  his;  their  full  pulses  throbbed  into 
one.  She  gazed  at  him  with  sparkling  eyes ;  her  lips  curled  corner- 
wise  into  a  smile,  and  she  drew  ragged,  uneven  breaths.  She  fancied 
that  it  would  be  like  this  if  she  had  gone  to  visit  her  husband's  grave 
in  this  ghoul-light,  and  he  had  come  up  in  his  grave-clothes  and  sat  on 
its  edge  and  talked  to  her.  But  Dering's  hand  was  not  the  hand  of 
the  dead.  She  drew  hers  away  suddenly,  and  started  to  her  feet,  when 
a  slanting  blast  dashed  her  down  again  beside  him.  Putting  out  his 
hand  to  draw  her  furs  closer  about  her,  he  let  it  rest  against  her  throat. 
She  shivered,  and  sunk  down  a  little  from  his  touch. 

'•'  Barbara,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "  you  have  played  me  some  witch- 
trick.  What  is  this  I  feel  for  you  ?  It  is  gruesome,  but  strong.  I 
feel  as  though  I  did  not  want  to  leave  you.  I  hate  this  murky  half- 
glimmer,  and  yet  I  would  be  content  to  sit  here  with  you  day  after 
day,  night  after  night,  for  a  long  time  [  think  my  mind  must  be 


452  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD 9 

akin  to  your  mind.  I  am  hungry  for  your  thoughts.  If  you  were 
Amina  in  the  story,  I  think  I  would  wait  for  you  at  the  church-yard 
gate  every  night  and  not  be  afraid." 

Then  she  began  to  laugh,  wild,  clamorous  laughter,  made  loud  or 
low  as  the  wind  swelled  or  withdrew. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "  that  is  what  I  am, — Amina.  I  live  on 
dead  bodies.  I  am  only  happy  when  prying  into  a  grave.  Church 
yards  are  my  lurking-places.  I  must  begin  to  eat  rice  with  a 
bodkin." 

He  held  her  firmly,  still  with  his  hand  on  her  throat. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  in  a  perfectly  grave  voice.  "1 
seem  to  understand  your  wild  mood  in  some  strange  way.  I  shan't 
attempt  to  reason  with  you.  Some  day  you'll  tell  me  everything." 

"  Yes,  everything,  everything,"  she  panted,  pressing  close  to  him. 
"  You  are  good  to  understand.  It  sounds  very  crazy,  I  know." 

"  I  think  you  must  have  suffered  a  great  deal." 

"  I  have  !  I  have  !"  she  said,  sobbingly.  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell 
you  now !" 

"  You  shall  tell  me  only  when  you  wish  to.  If  it  is  now,  I  will 
listen.  But  I  can  wait  as  long  as  you  choose.  I  am  very  patient." 

"  Yes,  you  must  wait.  I  can't  talk  connectedly  in  this  wind :  it 
blows  all  but  the  dregs  of  my  thoughts  into  foam." 

"  I  am  afraid,  to  be  very  prosaic,  that  you  are  taking  cold.  But 
what  are  we  to  do  ?  Walking  is  impossible,  for  you  at  least,  until  this 
hurly-burly  subsides." 

"  I  notice  that  your  slang  blows  away  too,"  said  Barbara,  with 
sudden  humor. 

"Oh,  my  slang  is  a  garment,"  he  answered.  "Whenever  I  go 
swimming  in  very  deep  waters  I  leave  it  on  the  bank." 

"  How  I  love  to  swim  !  It  is  one  of  the  few  out-of-door  things  I 
really  care  for." 

"  You  must  look  superb  with  that  dark-gold  head  of  yours  drenched. 
I  should  like  to  see  you  coming  down  a  shadowy  stream  in  this  light, 
laughing  that  dirling  laugh  of  yours,  like  a  true  water-kelpie.  How 
the  folks  on  the  bank  would  screech  and  run  !" 

"  I  seem  to  suggest  eerie  names  to  you.  First  I  am  an  elf-queen, 
then  Amina,  then  a  water-kelpie.  But  I  do  swim  well.  I  can  swim 
in  surf.  I  am  so  strong.  Feel." 

"  Gad  !  you  have  got  a  biceps  !"  said  Dering,  amazedly.  "  You 
are  the  most  extraordinary  mixture  I  ever  knew.  When  you  first  came 
in  that  evening  at  Rosemary,  I  thought  you  just  big  and  heavy :  you 
didn't  give  me  an  idea  of  strength.  Now  you  remind  me  of  a  war- 
goddess  :  your  piled-up  hair  is  like  a  helmet  in  this  curious  light.  Look 
here  :  some  day  we'll  go  swimming  together.  I  know  the  weirdest  old 
garden  in  Italy;  there's  an  enormous  lake  in  it,  lined  with  white 
marble ;  you  can  see  the  ripples  like  gold  threads  against  the  bottom 
on  a  moonlight  night.  I  should  like  to  see  you  with  that  water  curl 
ing  about  you.  How  splendid  those  arms  of  yours  would  look  drip 
ping  from  wrist  to  shoulder  !  Ugh  !  what  a  great,  golden,  uncanny 
thing  you  are  1" 


TEE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADf 

"  You  must  swim  well  yourself:  don't  you?  A  man  should  swim, 
and  ride,  and  wrestle,  and  fence,  as  he  breathes." 

"  I  have  always  thought  so,"  said  Dering. 

"  How  alike  we  are  !" 

This  sentence  always  marks  a  distinct  epoch  in  the  acquaintance  of 
a  man  and  woman.  The  hands  of  friendship  and  love  are  drawn  apart 
as  by  two  passing  trains,  and  friendship  is  left  on  the  siding.  These 
two  turned  their  faces  towards  each  other  in  the  grim  twilight,  although 
they  could  now  discern  only  a  vague  massed  darkness  where  each  was. 

"  Yes, — more  than  you  know,"  said  Dering,  concisely. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is  :  you  understand  me  before  I  speak." 

"And  you  understand  me  after  I  speak, — what  is  really  much 
rarer." 

The  wind  was  now  dying  down.  A  fitful,  whinnering  gust  occa 
sionally  shook  the  dry  limbs  above  them,  wailed  up  and  down  the  road 
for  a  little  space,  fleered  sullenly  to  leeward,  and  was  still. 

Dering  rose  and  held  out  his  hands  to  Barbara,  who  found  herself 
on  her  feet  and  almost  against  his  breast  at  the  same  time.  She  with 
drew  a  little  hurriedly,  and  the  darkness  fell  down  between  them. 
They  then  groped  their  way  stumblingly  to  a  gate  just  above,  and 
passed  through  together.  Among  the  tall  weeds  on  the  comb  of  the 
hill,  some  stars  were  a-tremble  like  belated  fireflies. 

"  Thert  are  your  elfin  maids  of  honor  coming  to  find  you,"  said 
Dering.  "  I  can  see  the  witch-fires  in  their  caps." 

"  You  see  they  don't  know  there  is  a  mortal  with  me." 

"  Perhaps  they  mean  that  this  mortal  shall  put  on  immortality." 

"  Don't !"  said  Barbara,  shaken  by  one  of  the  violent  trembling 
fits  which  had  alarmed  him  earlier  in  the  evening.     "  That's  in  the 
burial-service      How  can  you  speak  lightly  of  such  things  ?     Oh,  this 
has  been  a  terrible,  terrible  walk  !" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dering,  gravely. 

"Don't  laugh, — don't  laugh,"  she  urged,  grasping  his  arm  with 
both  hands.  "  Oh,  why  did  you  say  that  ?  I  can  see  it  all  now  ! — 
that  horrible,  long  church,  like  a  vault  itself,  filled  with  leering,  silly, 
curious  faces, — that  mouthing  man  in  his  robes, — the  coffin Oh  !" 

"  Barbara !  Oh,  you  poor  girl !"  said  Deriug,  with  curdling  pity. 
He  put  both  arms  about  her,  and  she  clung  to  him,  gasping  and  trem 
bling,  in  the  desolation  of  night-blurred  upland. 

V. 

Dering  came  to  Rosemary  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  but  Barbara 
was  not  to  be  seen.  For  nearly  a  week  she  did  not  leave  her  room, 
and  when  she  came  down  at  last,  drawn  by  the  wooing  of  the  warm 
November  afternoon,  which  had  in  it  some  of  the  after-glow  of  sum 
mer,  like  the  warmth  left  by  young  lips  en  those  of  the  aged,  she  found 
Dering  seated  on  the  shallow  stone  steps  of  the  old  portico,  playing 
with  the  greyhound  pups.  He  put  them  aside  as  best  he  could,  to  greet 
her,  and  his  eyes  went  deep  into  her  eyes.  He  almost  felt  the  moisture 
of  that  diving  gaze ;  and  then  her  lids  fell,  but  his  look  remained  upon 
her;  and  after  a  moment  or  so  he  began  to  think  that  she  inspired  him 


454  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

with  imagination,  such  strange  fancies  stirred  him  when  in  her  presence. 
This  afternoon,  notably,  she  seemed  to  him,  in  her  gray  gauze  gown, 
like  one  of  the  mist-wreaths  from  that  strange  evening  on  which  he 
had  last  seen  her,  blown  into  this  golden  to-day, — a  pale  cloud,  in 
shape  of  a  woman,  which  some  far  sunset  had  kissed  in  dying,  leaving 
its  light  upon  her  hair. 

As  he  rose  to  meet  her,  he  noticed  that  she  shrank,  and,  man-like, 
misinterpreted  the  motion.  He  thought  it  was  the  memory  of  their 
last  walk  together  that  caused  that  involuntary  withdrawing,  when  it 
was  in  fact  the  unmouruful  character  of  the  gown  that  she  wore, — an 
airy  thing,  held  in  place  by  an  old  silver  girdle,  and  meant  only  for 
feminine  eyes, — as  unwidow-like  a  garment  as  can  be  imagined  ;  suitable 
perhaps  for  a  young  girl  who  mourns  the  death  of  her  first  kiss,  but 
nothing  more  material.  Her  bright,  smooth  flesh  glowed  through  the 
smoky  folds,  like  Pleasure  revealing  herself  through  dreams. 

Dering  felt  her  beauty  cling  to  him  from  head  to  foot,  like  a  veil 
whose  woof  was  fire  and  whose  warp  mist.  It  thrilled  and  chilled  him 
at  the  same  time.  Pale  and  aerial  as  was  her  dress,  it  was  like  a  breath 
of  cold  air  between  them.  He  was  reminded  of  some  rich  tropical 
flower,  blooming  behind  the  meshes  of  the  Spanish  moss. 

All  this  passed  through  his  mind  in  a  whiff.  His  words  were 
prosaic  enough. 

"  I  came  to  bring  you  a  book,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  you'll  laugh 
at  me  and  call  me  Browning-mad,  but  I  like  it  awfully.  It's  all 
scribbled  up.  I  thought  you  were  still  ill,  you  know.  I  thought  it 
might  cheer  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  laugh  at  you.  I  like  Browning.  It  takes  courage  to 
admit  it,  though :  people  always  think  one  posing.  It  is  almost  as  trying 
to  acknowledge  Browning  as  it  is  to  acknowledge  the  Deity." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?     I  wonder  he  acknowledges  himself." 

They  laughed,  Barbara  with  some  nervousness. 

"  Suppose  you  come  and  sit  here,"  said  Dering,  "  and  let  us  look 
over  it  together.  This  air  will  be  like  wine  to  you.  I'll  get  that  fur 
rug  out  of  the  drawing-room." 

"  Wait,"  said  Barbara.  "  I  am  too  chilly  in  this  thin  dress.  While 
you  get  that  I  will  ring  for  a  cloak." 

She  rejoined  him  with  a  dark  cloak  dropping  from  her  shouldors. 
With  her  Naiad-like  attire  hidden  from  sight,  she  felt  more  matronly 
and  at  her  ease.  He  was  really  a  boy  to  her,  just  her  age  within  a  week 
or  two.  She  had  heard  of  his  every  school  and  college  escapade  from, 
her  husband,  and  actually  knew  the  names  of  two  of  his  salad-day 
flames.  She  smiled  at  him  in  a  distinctly  motherly  way,  as  he  seated 
himself  beside  her  on  the  rug  with  those  nestling  movements  which 
always  amused  her. 

"  I  like  you  when  you  look  like  that,"  he  said,  pleasedly.  "  YOU'VP 
got  an  air  of  The  Mother  of  Nations.  Do  you  know  you're  a  good  bit 
like  the  Milo?" 

"  How  very  absurd  !"  said  Barbara,  but  glowed  with  the  inward 
satisfaction  which  always  possesses  flesh  and  blood  on  hearing  itself 
compared  to  marble. 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  455 

"  Yes,  you  do.  I  used  to  think  the  Milo  a  big,  lumpy  woman ;  but 
she's  the  embodiment  of  grandeur  to  me  now." 

"  I  believe  you  thought  me  a  big,  lumpy  woman  at  first  ?" 

"  Not  lumpy, — only  too  big.  See  here :  I've  got  an  odd  trick  of 
opening  books  at  random :  I'm  going  to  open  this  for  you  before  we 
begin  reading.  Now " 

She  was  interested,  and  leaned  her  head  close  to  his  over  the  opening 
book.  His  curls  seemed  to  spring  against  her  hair  with  a  certain  life 
of  their  own.  She  drew  back,  noticing  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  said  Bering. 

"  Your  hair, — it  seemed  to  move." 

"  Did  it  ?     I  don't  blame  it.     Look,  this  is  for  you  : 

"  God,  that  created  all  things,  can  renew  I 
And  then,  though  after-life  to  please  me  now 
Must  have  no  likeness  to  the  past,  what  hinders 
Reward  from " 

"  Stop  !"  said  Barbara.  She  put  her  open  hand  on  the  page,  shut 
ting  out  the  words,  and  he  glanced  up  wondering,  to  see  that  she  was 
strangely  pale, — not  a  vestige  of  color  in  lip  or  cheek.  Under  the 
bright  up-springing  of  her  strong  hair,  her  face  had  the  whiteness  of  a 
dove's  wing  against  a  flame-brown  cloud. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  said,  again. 

"  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing.  It's  ghastly.  Please  don't  do 
anything  like  that  ever  again.  I — I  loathe  the  supernatural.  I  don't 
believe  in  it,  of  course,  but  I  loathe  it." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  me  supernatural.  I'm  beginning  to  think  you 
are.  At  least  if  you're  not  supernatural  you're  superwomanly.  I  never 
saw  any  one  an  atom  like  you.  I  wish  you'd  kindly  tell  me  where  I 
made  a  mis-cue  that  time  ?" 

"  Ah  !  your  slang-garment.  So  you  don't  feel  yourself  swimming 
in  deep  waters  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  No, — only  wading.  It's  deepish,  though.  I  will  soon  take  refuge 
in  naked  English.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what's  supernatural  in  opening 
a  book  at  random  ?  If  it  hits,  I  call  it  a  coincidence.  I  don't  see  how 
that  could  possibly  have  hit,  I  must  say.  I  thought  it  decidedly  a-gley. 
Was  there  any  meaning  in  it  ?  There  must  have  been,  to  work  you 
up  so." 

"  Yas,  there  was,"  said  Barbara,  and  again  the  blood  rushed  from 
her  face.  Dering  looked  at  her  rather  curiously  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  held  out  the  book. 

"  You  open  for  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  told  you  I  disliked  the  idea," — then,  with  sudden  contradiction, 
"  I've  done  some  wonderful  things  in  that  way  myself." 

"  Why,  do  you  open  books  too  ?    We  are  alike,  by  Jove !" 

"Yes,  I  open  the  Bible  sometimes;  but  that's  an  old  Methodist 
trick." 

"  Do  open  this  now.     I've  a  reason." 

Barbara  took  the  book  from  him  into  her  gloveless  hands,  which 


456  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD? 

were  long,  and  slenderly  firm,  with  perfectly-kept  nails  dashed  here 
and  there  by  little  white  flecks.  Their  touch  lingered  on  the  mental 
sense,  as  rare  music  does  on  the  mental  ear,  being  full  of  swift,  tin 
gling  pulses,  warm  and  elastic  as  some  fruit, — a  man's  touch  to  a 
woman, — not  quite  human  to  a  man.  The  hands  of  certain,  women 
are  more  subtly  sweet  of  contact  than  the  lips  of  others,  and  their  very 
hair  seems  to  breathe. 

She  hesitated,  opened  the  book  hastily  with  her  face  averted,  and 
thrust  rather  than  held  it  out  to  him. 

"  Shall  I  read  what  your  finger  marks  ?"  said  Dering. 

"Yes." 

"  Just  that  one  line  ?" 

"  Yes.  It's  probably  something  too  deep  for  any  one  but  Truth  tc 
dip  up  in  her  bucket." 

"  No,  it  isn't :  it's  Truth  herself." 

"  Let  me  see." 

They  bent  together  again,  then  drew  apart,  but  holding  each  other 
with  varying  eyes.  The  line  ran, — 

"  I  would  love  infinitely  and  be  loved." 

He  leaned  forward  after  a  while,  pulled  a  blade  of  grass,  and  marked 
the  place  with  it. 

"  It's  awfully  curious,"  he  then  said,  tossing  back  on  his  foldel  arms 
among  the  gray  fur, — "  most  amazingly  curious.  I've  just  been  pass 
ing  through  a  phase  of  my  life, — which  has  been  anything  but  an 
orthodox  one,  by  the  way, — and  last  night  I  came  to  that  conclusion. 
I  think  I  would  rather  love  infinitely,  even  without  being  loved,  than 
not  love  at  all.  I'm  not  a  bit  sentimental,  I  do  assure  you  !"  he  sup 
plemented,  hastily,  springing  erect  all  at  once.  Her  gravely  laughing 
eyes  reassured  him. 

"  I  never  take  remarks  personally,"  she  said ;  then,  with  a  change 
of  mental  position  as  swift  as  had  been  his  physical  one,  "  Don't  want 
to  love  !"  she  cried,  leaning  to  him  ;  "  don't  wish  for  it !  I  used  to ; 
I  used  to  pray  for  it  every  night.  Oh,  it  sounds  heroic,  and  superb, 
and  godlike,  to  say  that  you  are  willing  to  take  sorrow  along  with  love, 
— grief  in  proportion  to  it.  You  would  not,  when  the  time  came  ! — 
you  would  not !  If  we  live  we  suffer.  We  had  better  be  the  coals  of 
hell  than  the  people  they  burn.  And  yet  coals  can't  love,  you  know. 
Oh !  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying !"  She  got  to  her  feet  and  ran 
down  the  old  steps,  out  into  the  dappled  twilight. 

Dering  followed  her.  "  Look  here,"  he  said  :  "  you  needn't  evei 
be  afraid  I'll  misunderstand  you.  It  would  be  absolutely  impossible, 
— absolutely.  Go  on  and  talk  just  as  crazily  as  ever  you  please. 
"We're  all  crazy, — every  one  of  us, — and  the  very  craziest  of  all  is  the 
man  who  says  he  isn't." 

"  But  don't  want  to  love,"  repeated  Barbara.  "  It  isn't  a  romantic 
girl  talking  to  you.  I  am  a  woman  of  twenty-six,  and  I  know, — I 
know  it  all.  Whenever  I  think  of  it, — whenever  I  lie  awake  at  night 
and  think  of  the  whole  weary  thing,  from  first  to  last, — I  arn  so  grate- 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADf  457 

ful,  grateful,  grateful  that  I  never  had  a  child.  I  used  to  long  for  one. 
Now  I  am  so  glad  ! — so  glad  !  I  have  gotten  up  on  bitter,  winter  nights 
in  my  thin  night-gown,  trembling  all  over  with  the  cold,  to  thank  God 
for  that !  At  least  I  haven't  that  to  answer  for  !" 

"  I ,  know  so  well  how  you  feel,"  said  John  Dering,  gravely. 

"  Most  women  are  never  happy  until  they  have  a  child,  you  know," 
she  panted  on  ;  "  and  at  first,  at  first  I  did  long  for  something  to  remind 

— something  that  belonged Yes,  yes,  I  did  want  a  child  of  my 

very  own ;  but  now  I  tell  you  I  can't  thank  God  enough " 

She  paused,  expecting  some  words  of  remonstrance,  and  he  said, 
in  a  voice  which  was  as  different  as  possible  from  his  usual  boyish 
tone, — 

"  If  I  were  a  woman  I  should  feel  just  as  you  do." 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  are ! — how  you  understand  !"  she  cried,  pas 
sionately,  and  reached  him  both  her  hands.  He  took  them  in  his  own 
strong,  nervous  young  hands,  which  moved  incessantly  even  while  hold 
ing  hers,  and  waited  as  if  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  You  are  so  good,"  she  said,  again. 

"  Why  do  women  always  persist  in  calling  men  good  when  they 
understand  them  ?  I  honestly  believe  if  Satan  were  to  let  a  woman 
see,  while  she  was  roasting,  that  he  comprehended  her  sufferings,  she 
would  say,  '  How  good  you  are  !' }> 

"  But  you  are  good  :  no  man  who  was  not  would  listen  so  pa 
tiently  and  not  sneer.     I  don't  mean  that  you've  never  done  anything 
wrong " 

"  I  hope  not !" 

"  Nor  ever  will  again " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !" 

"  But  you  understand  me." 

"  One  has  to  be  a  bit  good  to  do  that,"  he  put  in,  quickly  and  some 
what  shyly.  She  moved  impulsively  towards  him. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  me  !"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  quite  so  dreadful 
sfnce  you  have  come." 

"  You  dear  thing  !" 

"  No,  it  isn't, — it  isn't.  Do  you  know  I  can  remember  when  I  used 
to  like  to  be  alone?  As  a  girl  I  liked  it.  Ugh  !  how  we  change  !  how 
we  change  !" 

"  Yes,  we  do,"  said  Dering,  feelingly. 

"  Will  you  stay  to  tea  to-night?  We  can  have  it  all  to  ourselves  in 
the  drawing-room,  before  that  big  fire.  Aunt  Fridis  always  sits  in  the 
library.  I  make  such  good  tea.  We  can  have  the  dogs  in.  It  will  be 
quite  bright  and  cheerful,  won't  it  ?  I  think  we'd  enjoy  a  long  talk 
over  the  fire.  A  wood  fire  always  thaws  my  thoughts.  We  could  roast 
some  chestnuts,  too." 

"  Nothing  personal  in  that,  I  trust  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Oh  !  that  disgusting  slang  !  Never  mind  : 
you  can  say  anything  if  you'll  stay.  But  you  will  stay,  won't  you  ? 
Are  you  fond  of  music?  I  play  very  well, — really  well,  you  know. 
Oh  !  I  forgot  there's  no  piano.  Well,  never  mind :  we  can  talk. 
Every  time  we  talk  together  I  feel  I  know  you  ten  years  better."  She 


458  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD1 


was  hurrying  on  eagerly,  feverishly,  glancing  every  now  and  then  over 
one  shoulder  or  the  other  as  at  some  haunting  presence. 

"  I  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  said  Dering,  suddenly.  "  I'm 
going  to  make  you  come  in  the  house  this  instant,  and  then  you're  to  go 
up-stairs  and  put  on  something  warm,  —  a  tea-gown,  if  you  have  one. 
You  are  shivering  all  over,  down  to  your  finger-ends.  And  then  you're 
to  pull  up  to  that  big  fire  you  spoke  of  and  let  me  amuse  you  :  that's 
what  you're  to  do." 

"  Oh,  how  like  Yal  !"  she  said,  under  her  breath  ;  "  how  like  him  !" 

Dering  turned  a  little  sharply. 

"  What  was  that  ?"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  quite  catch  it,  you  speak 
so  fast." 

"  Nothing,"  she  assured  him. 

As  they  mounted  the  portico  steps  together  he  turned  to  her.  "  It 
has  just  come  to  me  what  you  said,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  mislead 
yourself.  I'm  not  really  in  the  least  like  my  cousin  ;  that  is,  except  as 
far  as  looks  go." 

She  caught  at  his  arm  to  steady  herself,  and  her  tempestuous 
breathing  frightened  him  a  little. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  I'm  a  brute.  If  he  was  Valentine  I'm  certainly 
Orson."  And  he  smiled  with  a  grim  humor. 

"  No,  no,  you're  not,"  whispered  Barbara.  "  Only  you  have  yet  to 
suffer." 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I  have,"  said  Dering,  somewhat  gloomily. 
And  then  she  let  him  guide  her  into  the  dark  drawing-room  and  un 
fasten  her  cloak. 

VI. 

As  Barbara  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  Dering  came  and  put 
himself  in  her  way. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  think  me  insufferably  cheeky  if  I  were 
to  ask  you  something  ?"  he  said,  with  a  suggestion  of  embarrassment. 

"  I  should  say  that  it  depended  a  good  deal  upon  the  something." 

"  Well,  then,  would  you  mind  putting  on  a  white  gown  ?  —  that  is, 
of  course,  if  you  change  your  gown.  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?" 

"  Mind  ?  Mind  putting  on  a  white  gown,  or  mind  your  asking 
me  to?" 

"  Either,—  both." 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  You  are  a  dear  thing  !" 

He  reached  out  his  hand  impulsively,  she  placed  hers  in  it,  and  they 
both  laughed.  She  came  back  after  a  while,  feeling  rather  too  big  in 
her  loose  gown  of  white  China  crape. 

"  I  feel  something  as  I  fancy  a  statue  does,  when  it  is  suddenly 
done  into  marble  after  having  been  in  the  clay  for  a  long  while.  I 
feel  aggressively  white;  and  there  is  so  much  of  me  to  put  in  white." 

"  Oh,  well,  there's  a  good  deal  of  the  Milo,"  said  Dering. 

"  Yes,  but  even  she  dispensed  with  her  arms." 

They  laughed  again,  Barbara  afterwards   sitting  silent   for   some 


THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  459 

time,  and  filliping  at  the  little  silver  bells  which  ornamented  her 
hand-screen.  They  were  both  looking  in  the  fire,  but  Bering  could 
see  her  from  the  side  of  his  eye,  and  wondered  how  he  could  ever 
have  thought  her  too  big.  It  was  like  cavilling  at  the  size  of  a 
flowering  tree,  he  told  himself.  In  reality  Barbara  would  have  been 
handsomer  had  there  been  less  of  her  and  her  good  looks  thus  more 
concentrated.  As  we  grow  older,  we  like  our  creeds  and  slippers 
larger,  our  clubs  and  houris  smaller. 

Barbara  was  not  in  any  way  conscious  of  Dering,  as  she  struck  at 
the  fringe  of  bells :  she  was  merely  thinking  how  sad  and  pitiful  a 
thing  it  was  that  she  would  never  again  care  what  sort  of  garments 
she  wore,  so  long  as  they  covered  her  and  attested  that  she  was  in  her 
right  mind.  She  could  not  imagine  taking  any  interest  in  her  attire. 
When  a  woman  neglects  her  wardrobe,  it  is  as  when  a  man  loses  his 
interest  in  his  cook.  Like  the  proverbial  straw,  although  of  infinites 
imal  importance  in  itself,  either  fact  will  tell  which  way  the  wind  of 
destiny  is  blowing.  When  the  wardrobe  and  the  cook  flourish,  then 
for  the  coast  of  joy :  if  they  are  overlooked,  then  for  the  islands  of 
disillusion  or  sorrow.  A  woman's  hair,  however,  is  the  final  test.  As 
long  as  she  curls  it  she  cannot  be  truly  said  to  have  resigned  either  soul 
or  body  to  despair.  Let  the  accustomed  and  becoming  ringlets  be 
brushed  austerely  back  from  brow  and  temples,  then  in  truth  is  conso 
lation  an  exile.  Barbara's  rich  love-locks  were  yet  curled  above  her 
straight  brows. 

if  you  had  asked  her,  she  would  undoubtedly  have  replied  that 
life  to  her  was  a  burden  to  be  borne,  cheerfully  or  resignedly  as  the 
case  might  be.  She  would  have  smiled  at  any  suggestion  of  future  joy, 
as  surely  as  she  would  have  frowned  to  think  that  any  one  could  deem 
her  capable  of  ever  again  desiring  earthly  felicity.  She  would  have 
told  you  that,  to  her,  existence  meant  resignation  and  religion  a  great 
patience.  Yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  beneath  all  this  weight  of 
gathered  and  dried  twigs  from  the  tree  of  a  very  sorrowful  knowledge, 
a  tiny  Hope  rustled  its  yet  incapable  wings.  It  was  too  small  and 
just-born  a  thing  to  be  conscious  even  of  its  own  personality,  much 
less  to  make  Barbara  acquainted  with  that  fact.  She  perhaps  felt  the 
tickling  now  and  then  of  its  half-fledged  pinions,  but  this  sensation 
disturbed  rather  than  pleased. 

Dering,  who  was  much  in  love  with  her  already,  was  congratulating 
himself  that  at  last  he  had  found  a  woman,  young,  handsome,  and  in 
telligent,  who  would  sincerely  give  and  receive,  the  highest  order  of 
friendship.  An  old  councillor  had  once  said  to  him,  "  Young  man,  if 
you  want  a  friend  in  a  young  woman,  choose  one  who  has  had  some 
great  sorrow."  Barbara  had  been  the  possessor  of  this  required  item  ; 
she,  moreover,  corresponded  marvellously  to  his  rather  exalted  ideal 
of  womanhood.  Among  many  future  delights  which  he  pictured  as 
attendant  upon  their  communion  of  soul,  that  of  the  letters  which  they 
would  exchange  was  predominant.  What  charming  letters  he  felt  sure 
that  she  would  write ! — as  easy  and  unconventional  as  the  lines  of 
the  delightful  garment  which  she  now  wore.  What  delicate  humor 
would  characterize  them !  what  a  subtle  play  of  fancy !  what  quips  and 


460  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

quirks  of  lighter  moods  !  He  could  fancy  those  long,  gracile  fingers 
moving  over  the  thin,  white  sheets  which  she  would  send  him,  the  five 
rubies  above  her  wedding-ring  winking  impishly  from  her  other  hand 
used  to  steady  the  paper.  He  seemed  to  follow  these  graceful  hands 
from  wrist  to  shoulder,  from  shoulder  to  throat;  her  bending  face, 
illuminated  by  the  white  reflection  from  the  paper,  grew  also  on  his 
sight.  She  would,  perhaps,  wear  that  dense  yet  filmy  gown ;  in  the 
privacy  of  her  own  apartment,  she  would  have  unbound  the  riotous 
masses  of  her  copper-colored  hair ;  her  delicate  foot  in  its  web-like 
stocking  would  be  thrust  in  and  out  of  her  pretty  bedroom  slipper  as 
thoughts  and  fancies  crowded  on  her ;  she  would  doubtless  have  tossed 
other  discarded  garments  on  some  chair  in  that  charming  room ;  the 
peeps  of  delicate  lace  from  crumpled  petticoats  would  be  enchanting. 
She  would 

"A  penny,"  said  Barbara, — "two, — three, — even  four.  Your 
thoughts  were  so  tremendous  that  you  were  literally  glowering." 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  have  been  glowering,"  said  Dering. 

"  That  leaves  me  to  infer  that  they  were  pleasant  thoughts." 

"  So  they  were." 

"  Oh  !  then  I  can  have  no  hope  of  purchasing  them.  It  is  only 
disagreeable  thoughts  that  are  purchasable.  How  the  wind  blows  !" 

"  Yes  :  it  seems  the  signal  for  it  to  wake  when  wre  are  together." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  stayed  !  but  I'm  afraid  your  walk  home  will  be 
very  dreary." 

"  I  will  have  those  unsold  thoughts." 

"  Cannot  you  give  me  some,  even  if  you  will  not  sell  them  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  will.  I  was  thinking  what  congenial  friends  we  two 
are  going  to  be.  I  was  thinking  what  delightful  letters  you  could 
write.  I  dare  say  you  think  me  very  presuming.  Do  you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Barbara.  She  let  the  hand-screen  fall  with  a  little 
tinkle  into  her  lap,  and  held  up  her  laced  fingers  between  the  flames 
and  her  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said  again,  seriously,  turning  him  her  full  face.  "  I  do 
not  see  how  you  could  even  say  that  (because  I'm  sure  you  don't  think 
it),  after  the  way  I've  talked  to  you." 

"  If  I  had  any  doubts,"  replied  Dering,  "  they  are  gone  now." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  don't  feel  as  though  we  would  ever  have  a 
misunderstanding." 

"  Nor  1." 

"  I  do  not  see  why  people  should  ever  quarrel.  There  are  always 
stones  in  any  road,  but  a  skilful  driver  avoids  them.  This  very  road 
of  friendship,  one  can  either  jolt  over  it  or  be  whisked  smoothly  along, — 
counting  idiosyncrasies  as  stones,  of  course." 

"  You  must  have  been  as  strange  a  child  as  you  are  a  woman,"  said 
Dering. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara.  "  All  children  are  more  or  less 
strange,  only  grown  people  don't  take  the  trouble  to  find  it  out. 
Childhood  is  rarely  ever  commonplace.  Every  child  has  at  some  time 
one  thought  original  and  startling  enough  to  make  its  acquaintance  a 
benefit.  I  remember  once  a  child  telling  me  that  she  thought  '  hie- 


THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  461 

coughs  must  be  prayers  to  the  devil.'  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  an 
extraordinary  idea?" 

She  had  been  hurrying  on,  partly  from  real  interest  in  her  subject, 
partly  from  a  desire  to  be  saying  something. 

Dering's  absent-minded  length  of  gaze  gave  her  a  slightly  uncom 
fortable  feeling.  She  was  almost  used  now  to  his  resemblance  to  her 
husband,  and  the  dissimilarity  of  his  spiritual  self  was  beginning  to 
impress  her. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  a  woman  the  least  like  you,"  he 
said,  finally,  withdrawing  his  look. 

"  Oh/'  returned  Barbara,  "  every  man  says  that  to  every  woman 
whom  he  particularly  likes.  It  is  the  same  thing  as  telling  one's  sweet 
heart  that  she  is  the  only  woman  who  ever  really  roused  one's  whole 
nature,  or  that  no  man  ever  loved  quite  as  one  loves  her, — etc.,  etc., 
etc." 

She  rose  and  began  to  move  up  and  down  the  room  with  the  long, 
padding  gait  peculiar  to  her. 

"  You  move  like  a  panther,"  said  Dering.  "  I  can't  keep  my  eyes 
off  you." 

"  So  I  see,"  she  answered,  laughing  somewhat  nervously,  and  made 
as  though  she  would  sink  into  a  chair. 

"  No,  don't,"  he  pleaded.  "  Do  move  about.  I  can  feel  how  rest 
less  you  are.  When  you  walk  with  that  crouching,  suppressed  pace,  I 
can  almost  hear  the  jungle-grasses  crackle  back  from  your  way.  You 
do  change  so !  Out  in  that  wind  you  were  like  a  witch  thing, — 
uncanny, — all  eyes  and  a  blowse  of  red-gold  hair.  Then  when  I  meet 
you  sometimes  walking,  you  are  like  a  merry  boy.  Then  you  are  like 
a  shadow-woman :  you  were  this  afternoon  in  that  thinnish  gray  gown. 
When  you  speak  of  Val  you  are  like  a  beautiful,  forlorn  Peri.  There  ! 
you  have  changed  again, — in  a  second !  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it!" 

She  held  out  her  clasped  hands  to  him,  as  he  rose  and  approached 
her. 

"  Please  do  not  speak  of — him,"  she  said,  in  a  strained  undertone. 
"  Please  do  not, — ever  again." 

Dering  paused  where  he  was,  and  did  not  come  any  nearer  her. 

"  I  promise  you,"  'he  said.     "  I  will  not." 

\ 

VII. 

Barbara  had  by  this  time  become  quite  accustomed  to  the  fact  of 
Dering's  resemblance  to  her  husband.  True,  an  occasional  trick  of 
voice  or  gesture  would  arrest  her  with  a  sense  of  pained  cognizance,  but 
she  was  beginning  to  connect  his  personality  also  with  himself,  and 
these  characteristic  traits,  having  a  twofold  association,  wounded  her 
less  and  less.  They  were  together  more  frequently  and  for  a  longer 
time  as  the  days  fled  backward,  and  it  became  his  regular  custom  to 
spend  the  evening  at  Rosemary.  They  were  both  bewitched  by  that 
sense  of  unworldliness  which  possesses  men  and  women  of  the  world 
when  alone  together  in  the  country,  and  it  seemed  to  them  as  though 


462  THE   QUICK  OR    THE   DEADf 

they  could  never  voluntarily  have  mured  themselves  in  labyrinths  of 
brick  and  stone  during  these  late  autumn  days,  now  discovered  to  be 
the  most  desirable  of  all  the  year. 

It  was  on  a  bitterly  cold,  gray  afternoon  in  November  that  these  two 
comrades,  as  they  now  called  themselves,  were  engaged  in  a  game  of 
"graces"  in  the  large  central  hall  at  Rosemary.  The  earlier  day  had 
been  tempestuous  and  clattering  with  wind-whirled  sleet,  but  a  tawny 
cloud,  that  in  streaming  wildness  resembled,  perhaps,  the  flying  rnane 
of  one  of  the  Prophet's  fiery  steeds  when  in  mid-heaven,  now  streaked 
all  the  upper  sky  and  sent  a  gold-red  light  glowing  in  at  the  hall 
windows.  There  were  eight  of  these,  tall,  shrouded  shapes,  like  uncased 
mummies,  and  where  the  faces  should  have  been,  that  furnace-like 
radiance  shone  through  folds  of  sheer  muslin. 

The  figures  of  Barbara  and  Dering  were  revealed  as  by  a  gilded  mist, 
while  they  swooped  with  elastic  movements  among  the  shadows,  here 
and  there,  which  glittered  as  with  mica.  Now  the  rathe  arm  and  throat 
of  Barbara  came  into  bright  relief  against  the  dusky  formlessness,  now 
it  was  Bering's  gay  crest  of  curls  and  straining  shoulders.  The  orange- 
ribboned  hoops  circled  above,  like  two  haloes  uncertain  as  to  which  of 
those  handsome  heads  they  were  to  saint. 

Barbara  suddenly  caught  one  of  the  bright  rings  on  her  arm  and 
let  it  run  up  to  her  shoulder. 

"  You  are  not  tired  ?"  said  Dering. 

"  Only  of  this  especial  amusement.  Look  !  you  cannot  catch  that 
before  I  do  !"  She  sent  the  grace-hoop  spinning  down  the  long  hall  as 
she  spoke,  and  leaped  out  after  it.  Dering  was  almost  as  quick.  They 
met  hustledly  in  the  gloom  at  the  farther  end  of  the  house,  and  both 
seized  the  hoop  at  once. 

"  I  touched  it  first !"  said  Barbara. 

"  No,  I !"  declared  Dering. 

"  Indeed,  indeed  I  did  !"  persisted  she. 

"  Indeed,  indeed  you  didn't !"  he  returned,  mockingly. 

"  I  will  have  it,  at  all  events,  said  Barbara. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  tussle "  replied  Dering. 

Of  all  delightful  autumnal  experiences,  a  romp  in  a  big  country 
hall  towards  twilight  is  the  most  exhilarating.  Barbara  and  Dering 
wrangled  like  a  boy  and  a  girl  over  the  grace-hoop.  She  was  as  evasive 
in  her  sudden  dives  and  twistings  as  a  dream-woman.  Their  breath 
came  hurriedly,  and  they  began  to  pant  and  laugh  together.  Dering 
was  almost  winning,  when  some  small  object  tinkling  on  the  bare  floor 
attracted  their  attention.  Barbara  suddenly  released  the  grace-hoop 
and  rushed  forward. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  your  prize !"  she  called,  pausing  under  one 
of  the  windows  to  examine  her  find.  "  I  have  often  longed  to  see  what 
you  have  in  this  locket.  Now  I  will  punish  you  for  cheating.  I  will 
find  out  who  your  sweetheart  is,  and  I  will  never  again  give  you  any 
peace !" 

"  Jove !"  said  Dering.  "  was  that  my  locket  ?  Come,  Barbara, 
honestly, — don't  look  at  that,  please ;  I  really  ask  you." 

Barbara's  reply  was  to  press  a  little  nearer  the  window,  and  curl 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD ?  4(53 

her  lips  inward  in  her  effort  to  separate  the  close  rims  of  the  small  gold 
case  in  her  hands.  Dering  came  up  behind  her,  and  unceremoniously 
took  both  hands  and  locket  into  a  tight  grasp.  This  locket  contained 
nothing  more  sentimental  than  an  absurd  photograph  of  Valentine 
Pom  fret,  taken  when  the  two  were  at  college  together, — one  of  those 
deformed  caricatures  which  one  sometimes  sees,  and  which  consist  of  a 
Brobdingnagian  head  on  a  Liliputian  body.  Dering,  by  this  time,  knew 
enough  of  Barbara's  morbid  sensitiveness  to  dread  the  effect  which  the 
sudden  sight  of  this  photograph  might  have  upon  her. 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  not  joking,"  he  said. 

"  Nor  I.  There's  no  use  trying  to  bully  me.  You  know  I'm 
nearly  as  strong  as  you  are.  If  you  want  another  tow-row,  all  right." 

This  time  the  scuffle  was  wordless  and  somewhat  earnest. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,"  said  Dering,  finally. 

"  Don't  alarm  yourself.  I'll  stand  any  amount  of  mangling  to 
gain  my  end." 

"  You  know  I  seriously  mean  to  get  that  from  you." 

"  So  do  I  to  sec  it." 

"  I  simply  can't  nurt  you,"  said  Dering,  a  little  desperately,  "  but  I 
must  have  it.  Why  won't  you  see  I  am  in  earnest  ?" 

"  "Why  won't  you  see  I  am  ?" 

"  But  such  an  ado  over  a  little  thing  !" 

"  That's  what  I've  been  thinking." 

"  Barbara " 

"  It  is  my  name." 

"  I  give  you  your  last  chance.  It's  an  antique  resort,  but  if  you 
don't  give  me  that  locket  I'll — I'll  kiss  you  !" 

"  What  a  truly  terrible  threat !" 

"  You  don't  believe  it ;  but  I  will,  I  tell  you.  I  should  think  you 
might  see  that  I've  some  real  reason  for  not  wishing  you  to  see  that 
locket." 

"  How  deeply  penetrating  men  are !  As  if  that  were  not  the  very 
reason  that  I  wanted  to  see  it !" 

"  You  understand,  then,  that  I  really  mean  to  kiss  you  if  you  don't 
give  it  up?  Really  I  do." 

"  Do  you  ?"  said  Barbara.  She  escaped  him  by  a  sudden  flashing 
movement,  and  rushed  down  the  now  almost  absolutely  dark  hall,  im 
pelled  by  that  delightful  feeling  of  scared  uncertainty  which  precipitates 
children  down  a  long  staircase,  past  darkling  coigne.s  where  clutched 
fingers  are  waiting  to  grasp  a  loitering  ankle. 

She  dashed  into  the  as  yet  lampless  dining-room,  doubled,  through 
a  little  corridor,  and  rushed  back  on  her  own  traces,  laughing  gaspingly 
to  think  how  she  had  escaped  him.  As  she  darted  through  another 
door  back  into  the  dining-room,  she  found  herself  almost  in  Dering's 
arms.  Even  then,  however,  he  did  not  secure  her :  she  escaped  once 
more,  and  fled  into  a  dark  little  closet  to  the  left,  mistaking  it,  alas  !  in 
her  excitement,  for  a  corresponding  door  of  exit.  Dering  followed  her 
at  once.  She  gave  a  kind  of  laughing  cry,  like  a  hysterical  child,  and 
flattened  herself  against  the  wall,  thrusting  the  locket  behind  her;  but, 
catching  her  about  the  waist,  he  drew  her  forward,  feeling  for  the 
VOL.  XLI.-30 


464  THE   QUICK  OR    THE   DEAD? 

locket  with  his  other  hand.  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  open  a 
hoy's  fist.  She  bent  from  him,  and  made,  this  time,  an  altogether  in 
effectual  attempt  to  get  away.  Dering,  rather  out  of  patience,  stooped 
down ;  she  turned  her  head,  a  little  frightened,  and  her  lips  brushed 
his, — a  touch  light  as  flower-leaves,  fine  as  fire.  In  another  instant 
both  mouths  had  clung  into  a  kiss. 

A  great  mental  blow  annihilates  memory,  just  as  it  is  annihilated  by 
a  great  physical  blow.  Neither  Barbara  nor  Dering  recalled  how  they 
came  to  be  grouped  before  the  dining-room  fire,  he  leaning  back  in  a 
low  arm-chair,  she  crouching  with  her  hand-hidden  face  against  his 
knee.  All  about  them  was  a  winter  silence,  broken  only  by  the  tick 
ing  of  Pering's  watch  and  Barbara's  long-drawn,  sobbing  breaths.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  though  cold  rills  of  wind  were  playing  up  and  down 
his  limbs,  while  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  together  with  himself  and 
Barbara,  rose  towards  the  ceiling,  leaving  the  floor  at  a  great  distance 
beneath.  He  looked  far  into  the  hot  core  of  the  fire,  thence  down  at 
the  smooth  curve  of  the  head  of  his  cousin's  wife,  thinking  how  like 
were  its  shining  strands  of  hair  to  the  threads  on  a  reel  of  silk,  and 
grasping  more  firmly  the  handles  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  in  order 
to  refrain  from  touching  that  winning  lustre  with  his  finger-ends. 

Barbara's  breath  returned  upon  her  face  from  the  cloth  of  Dering's 
trousers.  She  saw  the  fire-red  in  blurred  lines  between  her  fingers, 
and  put  some  meaningless  words  to  the  ticking  of  his  watch,  fantasti 
cally  likening  it  to  an  echo  of  his  heart,  which  rapped  hurriedly  above. 
She  seemed  to  see  through  the  to})  of  her  head  his  set  face,  unusual  in 
its  fierce  pallor,  and  with  eyes  gleaming  as  she  had  remembered  them 
for  that  instant  when  they  had  flashed  into  hers  over  that  eager  kiss. 
The  fire  seemed  a  conscious  presence  to  her,  and  its  flames  appeared 
to  leap  and  cognizantly  peer  between  her  hiding  fingers,  until  she 
felt  almost  as  though  inquisitive  eyes  were  upon  her.  It  was  certain 
that  she  thought  of  everything  but  her  present  situation.  She  was 
kneeling  upon  a  wrinkle  in  the  hearth-rug,  and,  feeling  that  it  chafed 
her  knees,  was  reminded  of  the  Persian  prayer-rugs,  and  so  of  the 
desert,  and  so  of  the  dreary  possibilities  which  would  be  included 
for  a  woman  during  a  prolonged  ride  on  camel-back.  She  wondered  if 
Dering  had  ever  mounted  upon  one  of  those  picturesquely-distorted 
t>ea.sts,  and  was  inclined  to  laugh  when  she  found  that  she  had  forgotten 
whether  it  was  in  one  of  their  many  stomachs  or  in  their  humps  that 
they  carried  the  supply  of  water  which  prevented  them  from  suffering 
of  thirst  on  their  long  journeys. 

Dering,  in  the  mean  while,  became  also  the  victim  of  a  profound  and 
ghastly  desire  to  laugh.  The  corners  of  his  mouth  twisted  eyeward  in 
a  mirthless  and  distorted  grin  which  would  have  inexpressibly  horrified 
Barbara  had  she  chanced  at  that  moment  to  glance  up.  He  controlled 
this  risible  phenomenon  by  a  violent  effort,  however,  and  rasumed  his 
grim  stare  into  the  fire,  venturing  after  a  while  to  pass  a  somewhat  un 
certain  hand  over  her  bending  head. 

"  No,  no,"  whispered  Barbara. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "  I  won't  touch  you  again. 
F  only  want  to  do  what  you  wish." 


TEE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD?  465 

She  murmured  something  which  he  had  to  bend  down  to  hear,  and 
even  then  did  not  quite  witch. 

"  It  shall  be  just  as  you  say,"  lie  remarked,  at  a  venture. 

"  You  are  so  good,"  she  whispered  back. 

"But  what  must  I  do?  I  leave  it  all  to  you.  Must  I  go  away? 
I'll  go  abroad,  if  you  wish  it.  I'll — I'll  go  to  India :  I've  always 
wanted  to  go  to  India.  I'll  send  you  some  tiger-skins — um — that's 
too  commonplace,  eh ?  What  was  it  Isaacs  sent  his  sweetheart?  Tiger- 
*>ars,  wasn't  it  ?  I'll  send  you  some  tiger-ears." 

"  How  can  you  joke  about  it  ?"  cried  Barbara. 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  replied  Dering,  sorrowfully.  "  Reaction,  1 
suppose." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  so  dreadful ! — so  dreadful !"  came  the  smothered  tones 
from  his  knees. 

"  No,  I  won't  agree  to  that,"  he  answered,  firmly. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must.     It's  the  least  that  we  can  do." 

"What  is?  to  think  it  all  dreadful?" 

"  Yes,  all  of  it,— all." 

"  Well,  I  just  simply  can't.  It  may  be  a  want  of  refinement,  o* 
high  feeling, — I  suppose  one  could  find  lots  of  names  for  it, — but  I 
honestly  can't  feel  that,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  Barbara,  "  I'm  sure  you  will.  When  you  are  by  your 
self, — in  the  dark, — quite  alone, — you — you  will  see  how  awful  it  has 
all  been  from  first  to  last." 

"  No,"  returued  Dering,  "  I  know  I  won't.  You  had  better  make 
up  your  mind  to  that.  If  you're  disappointed  in  me,  it's  no  more  than 
I  am  in  myself." 

"  And  me,"  said  Barbara. 

"  In  you  ?  Darling  /"  he  breathed,  tearing  the  fringe  on  the  rathei 
rickety  old  chair  which  held  him,  in  the  effort  not  again  to  touch  her. 
"  How  can  you  say  such  things  to  me?" 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  said  one-third  that  I  ought, — that  I  mean  to.  You 
must  be  disappointed  in  me :  you  cannot  help  it.  It's — it's  almost  a 
duty;  yes,  it's  a  sacred  duty.  Disappointed  in  me!  you  must  despise 
me!" 

"That's  utter  nonsense!"  said  Dering,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone, 
which  sounded  as  incongruously  among  the  wailing  harmonies  of  her 
self- reproachful  voice  as  would  a  penny  trumpet  among  the  andante 
ripples  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata. 

"  I'm  glad  you  can  look  on  it  in  that  way,"  answered  Barbara, 
stiffly, — if  one  can  be  said  to  do  anything  stiffly  when  one  is  limply 
huddled  against  another's  knee.  "  Yes,  I — I  am  really  glad  of  that," 
she  added,  with  less  certainty. 

"  Why,  of  course  it's  nonsense,"  said  Dering,  stoutly.  "  When  you 
are  alone  in  the  dark  you  will  see  that."  All  at  once  he  succumbed  to 
a  sudden,  sweeping  passion.  "  '  Alone  in  the  dark,'  "  he  repented,  lean 
ing  down  his  arms  heavily  upon  her,  and  gathering  the  rich  folds  of 
her  gown  in  his  hands.  "  Barbara,  you  need  never  be  that  again." 

"  What  ?"  she  said,  huskily,  longing  to  hear  the  words  she  knew  he 
would  utter  in  reply,  and  yet  loathing  herself  for  so  longing.  "What?" 


±66  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADf 

"Alone  in  the  dark,"  said  Dering,  tensely;  and  she  felt  his  quick 
breath  glow  among  the  fibres  of  her  hair  as  his  lips  brushed  them  in 
speaking.  She  cringed  shivering  beside 'him  a  moment  longer,  and 
then  got  to  her  feet  and  hurried  away  from  him  to  a  distant  chair. 
When  he  followed  her  and  bent  over  her,  she  shrunk  down  from  him, 
putting  up  her  open  hands  between  them. 

"  It  is  what  I  must  be  forever,"  she  whispered,  shakenly, — "  always, 
— always, — always  !" 

"  No,"  said  Dering.  He  took  her  protesting  hands  in  his,  and  laid 
his  lips  first  to  one  palm  and  then  to  the  other. 

"  I  tell  you  yes !"  she  said,  passionately,  her  stormy  bosom  tossing 
some  little  diamond  pins  that  she  wore  into  iridescent  sparkles, — "  yes, 
and  yes,  and  yes  1" 

Then  she  took  his  face  into  both  hands  for  an  instant,  and  held  it 
near  her  own. 

"  We  are  both  mad,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"  Mad  if  we  persist  in  calling  simple  joy  madness." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  joy." 

"  But  I  have.     Will  you  deny  me  that  right  V 

"  If  it  must  come  through  me,  yes." 

"  It  must  come  through  you,  and  I  say  no." 

"  We  are  both  very  obstinate,"  she  said,  in  a  tired  voice. 

"  There  you  are  perfectly  correct,"  answered  Dering. 

"  But  I  will  conquer." 

"  There  you  are  entirely  wrong." 

"  Yes,  wrong  in  everything.  There  you  are  right.  Oh,  do  you 
suppose  I  do  not  suffer  ?"  she  cried,  with  sudden  bitterness.  "  I  have 
no  words  to  tell  vou  what  I  suffer." 

"IS' or  I,"  he  said. 

She  rose,  and  stood  for  an  instant  unyielding  in  his  embrace. 

"  You  are  a  man,"  was  her  final  reply.  "  You  have  not  the  com 
plex  feelings  that  tear  a  woman.  And  you  are  responsible  only  to 
yourself.  You  have  never — "  she  paused  a  moment,  looking  at  him, — 
"  you  have  never  been  married.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  hear 
a  dead  voice  ever  in  your  ears,  to  feel  always  a  dead  hand  claiming 
you.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  sin  against  the  dead.  The 
dead,"  she  repeated,  glancing  dreadlngly  about  her. 

"  Barbara  !"  said  Dering  ;  but  she  escaped  him. 

She  rushed  from  him  towards  the  half-open  door,  her  stretched- 
forth  arms  repulsing  him  as  he  advanced. 

"  No,  no  !  never  !"  she  whispered.  "  There  is  a  grave  between  us, — 
there  Is  an  open  grave  between  us." 

VIII. 

Dering  did  not  seem  to  himself  to  walk  back  to  the  house  at  which 
he  was  stopping.  He  had  that  sensation  of  gliding  along  without 
volition,  a  foot  or  two  above  the  ground,  which  we  have  all  experi 
enced  in  dreams,  and  his  dovvn-bent  eyes  were  not  conscious  of  the 
dreary  glisten  that  the  winter  moon  struck  from  the  wet,  dead  leaves 


THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD?  467 

about  hia  feet.  There  was  of  course  no  fire  in  his  room  when  he 
reached  it,  and  the  cold  was  intense ;  but  he  undressed  in  the  same 
species  of  stupor,  only  rousing  for  a  moment  when  in  trying  to  brush 
out  his  thick  curls  he  discovered  that  the  water  into  which  he  had 
plunged  them  had  frozen.  He  then  managed  to  kindle  a  small  fire 
with  some  bits  of  light-wood  and  an  old  sporting  gazette,  kneeling 
down  before  the  brief  blaze,  his  discarded  coat  held  by  the  sleeves 
about  his  neck  in  lieu  of  a  dressing-gown.  It  was  slow  work,  thawing 
that  thick  mass  of  heavily-curling  locks,  and  he  threw  on  more  wood, 
still  retaining  his  crouching  posture.  As  the  heat  increased,  he  was 
conscious  of  an  elusive,  subtle  perfume,  which  escaped  and  returned  as 
will  a  remembered  face ;  and  all  at  once  he  became  aware  of  its  origin. 
It  was  that  exquisitely  fresh  fragrance  which  sponges  and  some  women 
share  in  common, — a  smell  of  wild  grasses  and  the  sea, — of  a  woman's 
hair  daily  washed, — in  a  word,  of  Barbara.  For  the  few  moments  in 
which  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms,  her  head  had  leaned  against  his 
breast.  It  was  this  delicate  perfume  of  her  hair  which  the  fire  was 
now  drawing  from  the  cloth  of  his  coat. 

He  rose  and  plunged  into  bed,  giving  a  great,  boyish  shudder  as 
the  cold  sheets  settled  down  about  him.  His  coat  he  had  thrown  from 
him,  and  he  lay  watching  it  now  where  it  sprawled  in  a  dark  heap 
near  the  fire-lit  hearth.  He  longed  to  experience  again  that  faint, 
intoxicating  odor,  but  something  withheld  him :  it  was  like  retaining 
some  spiritual  portion  of  her  against  her  will,  and  Dering's  pride  was 
only  exceeded  by  his  honesty.  He  was  bewildered  as  yet,  and  could 
form  no  distinct  idea  of  his  position  in  regard  to  her,  though  of  one 
thing  he  was  sure, — namely,  that  he  had  no  right  to  think  of  her  as  a 
lover  of  his  lady.  Her  morbid  insistence  about  the  dead  had  not  at 
all  affected  him,  but  she  had  repulsed  his  embrace,  not  yielded  to  it, 
and  he  would  not  in  imagination  take  into  his  arms  a  woman  who  in 
reality  refused  to  remain  within  them.  He  was  a  man  of  few  but 
thorough  creeds,  and  chief  of  these  was  a  belief,  consistently  carried 
out,  which  ran  to  the  effect  that  a  man's  thoughts  should  be  as  respect 
ful  to  a  chaste  woman  as  were  his  actions.  He  knew  the  power  of 
perfume  over  the  fancy,  and  he  knew  that  self-control  consists  chiefly 
in  retaining  the  bolt  in  its  braces,  not  in  slipping  it  out  and  then 
thrusting  one's  arm  in  its  place.  He  lay  quite  still,  shivering  violently 
and  endeavoring  to  fix  his  mind  on  commonplace  things.  It  occurred 
suddenly  to  him  that  he  had  not  said  his  prayers,  which  he  did  with 
the  same  sweet,  clean,  boyish  regularity  with  which  he  plunged  daily 
into  cold  water.  These  prayers  varied.  They  were  sometimes  very 
long,  sometimes  merely  a  word  or  two, — never  prearranged,  and  having 
reference  to  anything  that  might  come  into  his  head  :  thus,  for  several 
nights  past  he  had  included  an  ailing  Irish  setter  in  his  petitions.  He 
was  a  being  of  vast  and  warm  affections,  and  sometimes  asked  happi 
ness  for  those  whom  he  most  loved,  taking  a  certain  pleasure  in  whis 
pering  their  names  into  his  locked  palms.  To-night  his  orisons  ran 
as  follows :  "  Dear  God,  make  Jock  a  good  boy,  and  bless  my  father 
and  mother,  and  everybody.  Amen."  Then  he  jumped  into  bed 
again,  unconscious  that  he  had  repeated  the  very  words  of  his  child- 


468  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

hood  prayers,  aud  seeing  Barbara's  face  advance  and  retreat  on  tho 
waves  of  darkness,  like  a  sea-tossed  flower.  He  thrust  out  his  arms 
with  a  fierce,  vehement  gesture  towards  it,  shutting  his  teeth  until  there 
was  a  sharp  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  whispering  imperiously  behind 
them,  "  Love  me, — love  me." 

Barbara,  in  the  mean  while,  had  also  undressed  mechanically  ;  that 
is,  she  had  cast  aside  her  gown,  and  unloosened  her  ridgy  hair,  letting 
the  hair-pins  fall  one  by  one  upon  the  carpet  as  she  took  them  out. 
Then  she  drew  the  glittering  lengths  together  with  both  hands,  aud 
stood  staring  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass.  Presently  a  strange  smile 
broke  the  stillness  of  her  face. 

"  Urn — we  know  each  other,"  she  said,  addressing  her  mirrored  self, 
— "  we  know  each  other,  you  and  I,  but  only  we  two.  You  really  have 
a  good  face, — yes,  really  a  good  face, — yes,  a  pure  face.  It's  pure,  1 
say.  Look  at  your  eyes, — such  a  clear,  dark  brown, — honest,  deep, 
truthful, — real  dog-eyes.  And  then  your  mouth's  very  fine, — such 
little,  deep,  cool,  high-bred  corners.  I  like  to  look  at  you ;  yes,  you're 
very  nice  to  look  at,  my  good  girl.  Um — you  smile  so  complacently, 
I  don't  think  I'll  pay  you  any  more  compliments.  I  think  I  will  tell 
you  what  you  really  are, — what  I  see  behind  all  that, — what  your — 
husband  sees !  Oh,  I  know  your  name.  You  are  called  Barbara 
Pomfret, — Barbara  Pomfret, — Barbara  Pomfret.  Your  husband's  name 
was  Valentine  Pomfret.  You  married  Valentine  Pomfret.  He  is  dead, 
but  his  name  is  not  dead :  it  is  alive  in  you.  Your  name  is  Barbara 
Pomfret."  She  leaned  forward  here  until  her  breath  made  a  little  tri 
angular  blur  on  the  clear  glass.  "  There's  another  name  for  you,  too," 

she  said,  "  It  is Wanton  !"  The  word  seemed  to  stab  her  a* 

though  some  one  else  had  uttered  it. 

"  O  God !"  she  cried,  falling  to  her  knees,  "  help  me !  Dear 
God,  help  me !  Hold  me.  Let  him  come  to  me,  just  a  minute, — 
just  a  minute :  I'll  pay  for  it  in  any  way ;  I'll  l>e  so  patient  afterwards. 
Val,  Val,  come !  Be  disobedient,  be  blasphemous,  be  anything  ;  only 
come  to  me  one  instant.  You  needn't  even  speak.  Just  let  me  see 
you, — you,  your  very  self. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  I  forgot !  He  would  curse  me ;  he  would  ask  you  to 
curse  me.  I  have  desecrated  myself.  Oh,  if  that  kiss  had  only  burned 
off  my  lips  !  Oh,  can't  I  die  ?  Won't  you  let  me  die  ?  Won't  you  let 
me  die?  Ah,  let  me  die  !  You  won't  hear  !  If  there  was  only  some 
one  to  ask  for  me, — some  one  you  loved.  Oh,  if  Christ's  mother  asks 
you,  won't  you  hear  her?  Dear  Mother  of  Christ,  pray  for  me, — 
plead  for  me  !  You  have  been  a  woman, — a  woman  like  me ! — like 
me!" 

She  fell  upon  the  floor  and  writhed  and  sobbed  until  the  boards 
vibrated  beneath  her  agonized  movements.  Her  feverish  breath  en 
veloped  her  face  in  a  steam  from  her  tear-drenched  hair,  as  it  had  once 
l>efore  enveloped  it  that  evening,  and  her  face  and  lips  were  smarting 
and  scalded  by  the  hot  drops  ever  gushing.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
torture,  she  put  out  one  of  her  burning  hands  and  began  to  stroke  her 
>wn  half-bare  shoulders,  with  soothing,  gentle  movements. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  thing,"  she  sobbed,  strangling,  "  if  I  could  only 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD t  46<J 

comfort  you  ! — if  one  could  only  comfort  one's  self  I"  And  then  the 
horrible  silent  convulsions  of  despair  arid  grief  renewed  themselves. 

It  was  not  until  a  full  hour  had  passed  that  she  rose,  or  made  any 
effort  to  compose  herself.  At  ihe  length  of  that  time,  however,  she 
kneeled  up,  and  began  gathering  her  soaked  and  tangled  hair  from 
about  her  face,  to  which  a  net-work  of  bright  strands  clung  inoistly. 
Her  under  lip  was  drawn  against  her  teeth  every  now  and  then  by  u 
struggling  breath,  heavy  with  tears  as  a  gust  of  summer  wind  witli 
thick  rain.  These  shuddering  breaths  recurred  at  regular  intervals,  and 
were  as  though  she  were  trying  to  force  herself  to  swallow  some  noxious 
draught,  while  her  throat  ached  as  though  she  had  been  guillotined  and 
was  conscious  of  the  wound.  She  got  to  her  feet  finally,  swerved  a 
moment,  and  stood  erect,  looking  about  her  with  a  just-born  resolve ; 
then  she  moved  to  the  fire,  which  had  glowered  down  in  crimson  rifts 
among  a  crust  of  white  wood-ashes,  and  spread  out  her  hands  to  its 
glow,  at  the  same  time  looking  up  to  the  shadowy  ceiling.  Her 
wretched  face,  glazed  with  tears,  borrowed  color  from  the  rich  coals,  so 
that  as  she  kneeled,  staring  upward,  with  large,  distended  eyes,  she 
seemed  like  the  Priestess  of  Fever  presiding  over  her  altar-fires. 

It  was  only  a  few  moments,  however,  before  she  rose  again,  and 
passed  from  the  warm  room  out  into  the  dark  and  draughty  hall  with 
out,  where  the  watery  moonlight  fell  in  oblong  shapes  upon  the  floor 
of  waxed  oak.  This  bleak  and  waning  light  only  served  to  confuse 
her,  and,  shutting  her  eyes,  she  felt  her  way  with  extended  hands,  until 
her  palms  came  in  contact  with  the  carving  on  a  chest  to  one  side. 
Opening  this  chest,  she  filled  her  arms  with  some  soft  draperies,  and 
returned  to  her  room,  locking  the  door  after  her.  She  lighted  the  small 
silver  Pompeiian  lamp  that  swung  from  the  canopy-rail  of  her  bed,  and 
this  wan  radiance  fell  down  in  languid  uncertainty  upon  the  kneeling 
woman,  and  the  mass  of  crushed  white  satin  and  lace  with  which  her 
arms  were  filled.  This  mass  she  extended  upon  the  silken  coverlet, 
touching  its  folds  into  place  with  a  soft  and  gentle  reverence,  and 
spreading  above  it  the  veil  of  delicate  tulle.  She  then  took  from  her 
throat  the  gold  miniature-case  which  contained  her  husband's  likeness, 
and,  opening  it,  laid  it  down  upon  the  sheening  folds  before  her.  Next 
she  deliberately  drew  off  her  fur-lined  dressing-gown  and  slip{>ers. 

The  fire  was  now  a  more  pale  blur  here  and  there  in  the  dark  chim 
ney-place,  and  a  cold,  bitter  and  intense,  pervaded  the  room,  while  out 
side  the  wind  rose  a  little  and  then  dropped  abruptly  like  a  thing  too 
heavy  for  its  wings. 

In  the  strong  draught  which  passed  from  one  loosely-hung  door  to 
the  other,  the  silver  lamp  swung  to  and  fro,  changing  the  shadows  in 
the  satin  folds  underneath,  and  seeming  to  strike  sparks  from  Barbara's 
bending  head. 

All  night  she  kneeled  there,  clad  only  in  her  night-dress  of  thin 
cambric.  The  dreary  winter  sounds  outside  seemed  not  to  disturb 
her.  Now  one  heard  the  clash  of  ice-coated  twigs  in  the  fitful  gusts, 
now  the  crisp  sound  of  some  hoofed  thing  as  it  broke  through  the 
frost-rime  matting  the  dead  grass.  Now  a  shutter  clapped  forward  and 
then  back  again,  startling  the  house-dog  to  dismal  barkings,  or  an  owl 


470  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD 7 

aorcamed  its  desolate  tremolo,  first  close  at  hand,  then  flying  farthei 
off,  as  though  to  imitate  an  echo. 

IX. 

A  whole  week  passed  before  he  saw  her  again,  and  then  it  was  only 
by  accident.  He  had  walked  over  to  Rosemary  as  usual,  and,  on  being 
told  of  Barbara's  absence,  had  decided  to  strike  out  across  the  fields  on 
his  homeward  way,  rather  than  take  that  monotonous  tramp  along  the 
frost-roughened  roads.  As  he  swung  himself  over  the  low  gray  fence 
at  the  back  of  the  stables  into  the  brown  aud  neglected  field  beyond,  he 
felt  as  though  he  were  becoming  part  of  some  cleverly-executed  water- 
color.  The  sweeps  of  ragged  hill-side,  undefined  and  vaguely  dark  in 
the  winter  twilight,  seemed  as  though  roughly  washed  in  sepia,  and 
their  tall  weeds  bristled  at  top  against  a  wall  of  clear,  chrome  yellow 
ribbed  with  scarlet. 

The  broad  backs  of  some  huddling  sheep  caught  here  and  there  a 
fkded  reflection,  and  the  hurried  tinkling  of  the  bell  on  the  neck  of  a 
homeward-driven  cow  broke  the  cold  stillness.  At  tiie  bottom  of  the 
field  an  ice-coated  brook  pursued  its  sluggish  way,  and  Dering  paused 
to  break  otf  some  slivers  of  the  ice  and  transfer  them  to  his  mouth,  a 
boyish  trick  which  he  could  never  resist.  As  he  stood  erect,  after  ac 
complishing  this  somewhat  slippery  feat,  he  saw  a  tall  figure  about 
ten  yards  farther  off,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream,  motionless, 
beside  a  half-burned  brush  fire.  The  pale  smoke-spiral  curled  slowly 
up  beyond,  seeming  to  encircle  her  in  its  mystic  whorl. 

In  an  instant  he  was  beside  her  and  had  her  hands  in  his.  She 
caught  her  breath  sharply,  but  made  no  exclamation,  and  they  stood 
searching  each  other's  faces  in  the  feathery  light. 

He  spoke  first,  excited  and  breathless:  "You — you?  Why  have 
you  tried  to  hide  from  me  ?  You  cannot :  it  is  useless.  You  see  ?" 
And  he  drew  her  towards  him  as  he  spoke ;  but  she  was  as  rigid  and 
unyielding  as  a  figure  of  iron  :  in  truth  her  heavy  black  garments,  seen 
in  this  reddish-gray  light,  resembled  draperies  of  that  sombre  metal. 

"  Let  my  hands  go  !  let  my  hands  go  !"  she  said  to  him. 

For  answer  lie  lifted  first  one  and  then  the  other  to  his  lips.  She 
felt  their  warm  clinging  through  her  thick  gloves,  but  this  rich  sensa 
tion  only  served  to  fix  her  in  her  austere  determination. 

"  I  will  not,"  she  said ;  and,  drawing  herself  haughtily  away  to  the 
whole  length  of  her  long  arms,  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  which  she  had 
caught  from  him,  and  behind  her  closed  teeth,  "  I  will  not" 

"  *  Words, — words, — words,'  "  said  Dering. 

He  released  her  hands,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  crushed  her  to  him 
by  main  force. 

"  You  see?"  he  said,  again. 

"That  is  nothing.  It  is  nothing,  I  tell  you.  You  are  a  man,  and 
your  body  is  stronger  than  mine ;  but  your  will  is  not ;  no,  your  will  is 
not." 

"  You  think  so  ?"  whispered  Dering,  with  his  lips  against  her  ear. 
His  breath  streamed  down  her  cheeks  in  among  the  black  furs  at  her 
throat,  thrilling  her  to  the  quick,  and  she  began  to  pant  frantically. 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD?  471 

"  You  are  cruel,"  she  said,  repulsing  him  as  best  she  could.  "  All 
men  are  cruel.  You  are  like  the  rest.  You  are  cruel." 

"  No,"  replied  Dering, "  it  is  not  I  who  am  cruel.  It  is  you.  You 
are  cruel  to  yourself." 

"  I  want  to  be  !  I  want  to  be  !" 

"  You  are  cruel  to  yourself,  but  you  are  far  crueller  to  me." 

"  I  must  be.     I  must  be  punished  through  you." 

"  You  must  be  punished  through  no  one." 

"  I  tell  you  I  must.  I  have  asked  God  to  punish  me.  I  asked 
him  all  one  night  on  my  knees,  in  the  cold,  with  nothing  on  but  my 
thin  night-gown.  You  remember  that  night  last  week, — tJiat  night  ? 
The  thermometer  went  to  zero.  That  was  the  night  I  asked  him. 

"  You  are  mad  !" 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not :  I  wish  I  were  !" 

"  Perhaps  it  will  help  you  to  drive  me  mad?     Will  it?" 

"  I  said  you  were  cruel.  Oh,  women  could  not  say  such  things  to 
— to  those  who — to  those  they  cared  for." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  then.  I  don't  suppose  either  of  us  know  ex 
actly  what  we  are  saying.  Look  here  :  you're  not  near  warmly  enough 
dressed." 

"  I  have  on  fur,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  to  her  throat  with  a 
certain  guilty  timidity. 

"  Um — yes,  a  little  strip  around  your  neck,"  replied  Dering,  un 
convinced.  "  But  this  jacket  is  the  same  one  you  used  to  wear  all 
those  warm  October  days.  You  see  I  remember." 

"  I  am  warm  enough,"  she  answered,  through  chattering  teeth. 

"  Oh,  if  you  insist,  certainly,"  he  said.  Then  there  fell  a  silence 
between  them. 

"  How  pretty  that  is  !"  she  ventured  at  last,  disturbing  the  brush 
ashes  with  the  toe  of  her  boot.     The  coals  glared  in  red  strips  through 
the  delicate  white  rime,  like  the  core  of  some  flaming  fruit  through  Out 
outer  husk  ;  here  and  there  little  wavering  corkscrew  films  went  melting 
upward. 

"  Very  pretty,"  muttered  Dering,  absently.  All  at  once  he  whirled 
about,  and  caught  her  again  in  his  arms.  "Here,"  he  said,  "tell  me 
the  truth  here, — breast  to  breast,  heart  to  heart,  life  to  life.  I  kno\v 
that  morbid  thought  that  haunts  you.  Put  it  away.  Do  you  hear  ?  I 
command  you.  I  am  your  lover.  You  hear?  I  command  you  to 
stop  thinking  those  awful,  ghoulish  thoughts.  No,  don't  struggle, — 
please  don't.  Dear, — so  dear, — let  me  tell  you  what  I  found  last  night 
in  my  prayer-book.  It's  one  I'm  awfully  fond  of:  my  favorite  sister 
gave  it  to  me, — the  lame  one,  you  know,  who  died.  I  was  thinking 
about  her,  and  how  she  used  to  help  me  and  love  me,  and  1  felt  as 
though  she  were  telling  me  where  to  turn,  and  then  I  put  my  finger  on 
these  words :  '  The  living — the  living  shall  praise  thee,  O  Lord.' 
There,  darling,  that's  it, — 'The  living.'  Don't  you  see?,  Why,  it  was 
just  like  a  message, — just  like  a  word  from  God  himself.  '  The  living,' 
Barbara, — '  the  living  !' " 

"  Have  pity  !"  she  cried,  hoarsely,  clinging  to  him.  "  Mercy  I 
have  mercy !" 


472  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1 

There  were  great,  scalding  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  darling,"  he 
said,  "you  ask  uie  that? — when  you  haven't  any  mercy  on  yourself? 
Oh,  you  poor  darling !  For  heaven's  sake,  Barbara,  look  on  this  thing 
rationally,  humanly,  as  we  were  meant  to  look  on  such  things.  Why, 
darling,  think  of  it !  he's  not  your  husband  now :  he's  a  spirit, — an 
essence ;  no  more  than  that  smoke  curling  up  at  our  feet.  There ! 
there  I  I'm  a  clumsy  brute.  Oh,  I  wish  to  God  God  would  help  me  !" 

Neither  of  these  frantic  creatures  caught,  in  thus  despairing  apj>eal, 
that  touch  of  humor  which  grief,  in  certain  moments  of  necessity,  will 
invariably  borrow  from  mirth.  They  grasped  each  other,  trembling 
violently,  and  feeling  the  earth  *^ave  beneath  their  feet  like  a  shaken 
carpet. 

Dering  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Don  t  cry  like  that,"  he  urged.  "  I  can't  stand  it ;  I  simply 
can't  stand  it.  Darling,  you  will  drive  us  both  crazy !  Oh,  why 
can't  you  see  it  all  as  clearly  and  blessedly  as  I  can  ?  Barbara,  it  was 
meant  to  be ;  it  was,  darling,  I  know  it  was.  Look  here :  I  didn't 
mean  to  come  to  Virginia  this  autumn :  I  was  going  to  Canada  with  a 
friend  of  mine ;  and  he  fell  through  a  trap  at  a  theatre  and  got  awfully 
hurt,  and  so  of  course  we  couldn't  go.  And  then — look  here,  dear, 
please  listen, — please  don't  cry  like  that.  Look  :  this  will  seem  funny 
to  you, — it's  got  a  ghastly  sort  of  fun  in  it, — but  I  had  taken  a  dis 
like  to  you  without  seeing  you.  Honestly,  dearest,  I  had.  I  made 
Va — I  mean  I  made  some  one  awfully  angry  once  by  telling  them  I 
thought  your  photograph  looked  coarse.  Think  of  it !  I  said  I  thought 
you  looked  coarse  !  My  darling, — darling, — darling  J" 

She  shuddered  afresh,  pressing  closer  to  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
urging  him  from  her. 

"  It's  what  I  am,"  she  muttered,  brokenly. 

"  What  is?"  demanded  Deriug,  startled,  then,  as  her  meaning  flashed 
on  him,  violently  indignant.  "  You  seem  to  take  a  sort  of  delight  in 
saying  that  sort  of  thing  to  me,"  he  cried.  "  You  know  it's  false. 
You  know  the  very  idea's  ridiculous.  You  know  I  only  told  you 
because  I  thought  it  might  take  you  out  of  yourself,  it  was  so  per 
fectly  ridiculous.  Barbara  !  stop  crying." 

"  Oh,  let  me  ! — let  me !"  she  whispered,  with  a  beseeching  move 
ment  of  her  whole  figure. 

"  Why,  certainly,  if  it  comforts  you,  my  poor  dear,"  he  said,  stroking 
all  of  her  hair  that  he  could  reach  beneath  her  close  hat.  To  this  she 
replied  by  a  wail  of  absolute  despair. 

"  Nothing  will  ever  comfort  me  again,"  she  cried  ;  "  and  if  it  could 
I  ought  not  to  want  it  to." 

"  My  own  girl,  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  how  morbid  you  are." 

"  How  can  you  call  it  morbidness  ?"  she  said,  suddenly  releasing 
herself.  "  Suppose  you — had — been — my — husband.  Would  you  want 
tue  to  forget?" 

He  noticed  the  same  apprehensive,  backward  glance  that  followed 
any  mention  of  her  husband.  It  touched  him  with  a  horrified  and 
gushing  tenderness,  and  he  spoke  under  its  warm  impulse.  He  took 
both  her  hands,  crossing  one  above  the  other,  and  pressing  them  con 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1  473 

viiicingly  between  his  own  as  he  talked.  "  Listen :  let  uie  tell  you 
how  I  would  have  felt,"  he  said.  "  I  would  have  felt  that  anything, 
anything  which  could  add  to  your  happiness  while  on  earth  would  have 
my  blessing.  Any  true,  honest,  unselfish  man  would  feel  so.  I'm  sur*» 
that  it's  just  the  way  he  felt." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  stricken  cry  which  broke  from  her,  as  she 
tore  her  hands  away  and  faced  him  with  tumultuous  bosom. 

"  Then  you  don't  love  me !"  she  cried.  "  You  don't  know  what 
love  is.  You  could  never  say  that  if  you  really  loved  me.  It's  hide 
ous.  You  would  never  understand.  Oh,  it  makes  me  wild  to  see  how 
calmly  you  stand  there  !  You  don't  know.  Men  never  know.  They 
never  really  suffer.  They  get  over  things  so.  Their  memories  are 
like — like  photographs, — they  fade  out  so.  Women's  memories  are 
like  statues  :  you  may  break  them  in  pieces,  you  may  leave  them  out 
in  storms  until  they  are  all  discolored,  you  can  always  put  them  to 
gether  again.  No  matter  how  stained  they  are,  they  always  retain  their 
shape.  It  is  our  greatest  curse.  Yes,  it  is  a  curse  upon  us.  We  can't 
forget !  we  can't  forget !" 

She  threw  herself  forward  on  her  knees  among  the  thick,  tangled 
grasses,  and  took  her  face  into  her  desolate-looking,  black-gloved  hands. 
Dering  stood  staring  down  upon  her,  helpless,  almost  hopeless. 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  say,"  he  ventured  at  last,  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  No,  there's  nothing, — there's  nothing,"  she  said.  "  If  I  could 
forget,  there  might  be  something.  It's  that  awful  distinct  recollection 
that  I  have  of  everything.  Why,  I  can  see  him  now, — I  can  hear 
him.  I  can  see  him  lighting  his  cigar,  coming  home  in  the  dusk.  I 
can  see  the  very  streaks  of  light  on  his  hat-brim  and  between  his 
fingers,  and  the  dead  golden-rod  stalks  looking  all  pinched  and  gray 
about  our  feet.  I  can  hear  him  say,  '  Look  out !  there's  a  man-trap  !' 
as  he  caught  his  foot  in  a  tangle  of  grass.  I  can  see  the  way  he  used 
to  get  about  looking  for  a  comfortable  chair,  with  his  cigar  in  one  hand, 
and  a  book  folded  over  his  forefinger.  I  can  see  him  making  tea  for 
me  when  I  was  ill,  and  burning  his  fingers,  and  dancing  about  with 
pain — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  He  was  so  absurd  sometimes  !  Oh,  Val !  Val  !" 
Hue  ended,  with  a  perfect  shriek  of  desolation. 

Dering  felt  as  though  she  had  thrust  her  hand  into  his  breast  and 
was  twisting  his  heart-strings  about  with  her  strong,  supple  fingers,  as 
he  had  seen  her  twist  the  greyhound  puppies'  ears.  At  that  moment 
nothing  appeared  of  much  consequence.  He  thought  mechanically  that 
he  would  go  out  shooting  to-morrow,  and  wondered  if  the  Irish  setter 
would  have  recovered  sufficiently  to  accompany  him. 

Suddenly  she  stretched  up  to  him  two  feeble,  appealing  hands. 
u  Let  us  go  home,"  she  said,  wearily.  "  I  am  so  tired.  I  feel  so  ill." 

He  put  a  gentle  arm  about  her,  and  she  leaned  heavily  against  him 
as  they  passed  on  through  the  overgrown  field,  the  wild-rose  brambles 
catching  against  her  sorrowful  skirts  and  pulling  them  backward  every 
moment  or  so.  It  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  anything  save  the  gaunt 
net-work  of  the  trees  against  the  lowering  sky,  and  the  dark  jutting 
of  the  stable-roof  and  the  tall  chimneys  of  Rosemary. 


474  THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

X. 

Barbara,  who  lay  awake  nearly  all  of  that  night,  had  been  sleeping 
restlessly  for  about  an  hour,  when  Rameses  awakened  her.  Her  method 
of  rousing  her  mistress  was  somewhat  unique,  and  consisted  in  kneeling 
down  by  the  bed  and  keeping  her  large,  circular  eyes  upon  those  of 
Barbara.  On  this  occasion  she  had  prefaced  this  performance  by  proj>- 
piug  an  euveloj>e  against  the  pillow,  and  as  her  mistress  awoke  she 
pushed  it  towards  her  wi<  h  one  slender  brown  finger. 

"What  is  it?  A  letter?  Is  it  time  for  the  post?  Have  I  slept 
so  late?"  asked  Barbara,  hurriedly.  Then  she  saw  that  there  was  no 
etamp  on  the  envelope,  and  recognized  Dering's  handwriting. 

"  Open  the  closet  door  a  little,"  she  said,  and,  leaning  on  her  elbows 
among  the  tumbled  bed-clothes,  she  read  the  note  in  the  chink  of  light 
admitted  through  the  window  of  the  closet.  Its  contents  were  brief, 
and  ran  as  follows  : 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York  on  the  first  afternoon  train.  I  will  not 
come  to  Rosemary  again,  to  torture  and  worry  you.  I  understand 
perfectly.  Never  think  that  I  misjudge  you.  Could  you  scratch  me 
just  a  word  or  two  to  take  with  me?  Or  send  me  a  marked  book, — 
one  that  you  have  marked,  of  course.  If  you  need  me  or  want  to  see 
me  at  any  time,  you  have  only  to  telegraph  Manhattan  Club.  I  will 
send  you  my  address  if  I  go  abroad.  I  am  afraid  this  is  an  unearthly 
hour  to  rout  you  up,  but  I  have  to  leave  on  a  very  early  train  to  make 
connection  at  Charlottesville,  and  I  feel  selfish  enough  to  put  you  to  a 
iittle  inconvenience  when  I  think  of  those  awful  hours  of  waiting  in 
that  village,  and  how  a  note  or  book  from  you  would  help  me  out. 

"  Yours, 

"  J.  D." 

Barbara  put  back  her  tangled  hair,  and  looked  up  at  Rameses  out 
of  eyes  heavy  with  tears  and  sleep. 

"  Who  brought  this ?     Is  he  waiting?"  she  demanded. 

"  Yease'm,  he's  a-waitin'.     'Tis  Unc'  Jim's  boy  Granville." 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  some  paper,  and  a  pencil,  and  a  book  to 
write  on." 

She  wrote  the  following  note,  still  lying  down  in  bed,  and  leaning 
first  to  one  side  and  then  the  other,  as  her  arms  began  to  tingle  numbly 
with  the  strain  : 

"  If  you  would  like,  come  over  at  two  o'clock  and  I  can  drive  you 
to  Charlottesville  in  time  for  the  6.30  Exprass,  and  then  you  won't 
have  any  waiting  to  do.  If  not,  write  me  again,  and  I  will  send  the 
lx>ok  you  wish  to  the  station.  I  thank  you  with  all  my  (she  had  writ 
ten  "  heart,"  then  scratched  it  out  elaborately  and  put  a  very  distinct 
"  power"  after  it)  power  for  your  kindness  to  me  always. 

"  BARBARA." 

The  signature  also  showed  signs  of  fluctuation.  It  had  first  been 
"  Yours  ever,  B.  R.  P.,"  then  "As  ever,"  then  merely  "  B.,"  and  finally 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD1  475 

a  rattier  infinitesimal  "  Barbara," — as  though  she  were  trying  to  express 
a  whisper  in  writing  by  the  smallness  of  her  chirography. 

The.  reply  to  this  missive  came  shortly, — a  telegraphic  formula  of 
ten  words  : 

"  Will  be  at  Rosemary  2  sharp.     You  are  so  good.     J." 

When  Rameses  had  prepared  her  bath,  and  thrown  wide  all  four 
of  the  large  windows,  Barbara  saw  that  it  was  raining  gently  but  con 
stantly.  The  whole  lawn  had  a  sodden,  unkempt  appearance,  and 
some  plough-horses  that  had  strayed  into  the  enclosure  glistened  dis 
mally.  The  roads  would  be  in  a  frightful  state,  and  she  thought  with  a 
palpable  shudder  of  her  long,  dreary,  companionless  homeward  drive 
that  evening.  She  decided  that  she  would  not  trust  herself  to  be  her 
own  charioteer  on  such  a  gloomy  night,  and  had  recourse  to  the  here 
tofore  despised  "  carry -all"  and  "  Unc'  Joshua." 

Bering  was  punctual  to  the  second,  and  they  set  off  at  ten  minutes 
past  two,  half  smothered  in  the  fur  carriage-robes  with  which  Miss 
Fridiswig  had  heaped  them. 

It  was  still  raining  as  they  drove  out  upon  the  high-road,  but  with 
less  steadiness,  and  the  mists  upon  the  hills,  which  were  of  a  dark, 
soaked  purple,  had  lifted,  and  hung  in  dissolving  wreaths  here  and 
there  above  the  rich  slopes.  Beauregard  Walsingham  rode  behind  to 
open  gates,  and  Unc'  Joshua  had  the  front  seat  of  the  carry-all  to  him 
self,  slipping  about  at  particularly  uneven  bits  in  the  road,  with  & 
creaking  sound  of  damp  leather.  This  carriage  was  perhaps  twenty 
years  old,  and  rattled  in  more  places  than  one  could  imagine  it  pos 
sible  for  a  vehicle  of  any  description  to  rattle, — filling  up  the  gaps  in 
Dering's  and  Barbara's  somewhat  spasmodic  conversation,  as  Feuillet 
says  the  noise  of  Paris  fills  up  the  gaps  in  a  Parisian's  life. 

He  had  told  her  perhaps  ten  times  of  her  goodness  in  driving  with 
him  to  Charlottesville,  for  the  same  number  of  times  she  had  replied 
that  it  was  only  a  pleasure,  and  they  had  admired  in  every  variety  ol 
language  every  variety  of  tone  in  the  dense  gray  air  about  them,  when 
he  turned  abruptly  to  her. 

"  How  I  will  miss  you  !"  he  said,  in  a  strangled  voice,  and  then 
twice,  back  of  his  teeth,  in  that  way  he  had,  and  speaking  in  French 
for  fear  of  Unc'  Joshua,  "  Je  t'aime ! — -je  Ccdme  /" 

"  No,  no,"  she  whispered,  bracing  herself  away  from  him  by  means 
of  her  hand  against  his  knee  under  the  fur  robes.  He  drew  off  his 
gloves  and  held  it  there,  his  pulses  throbbing  riotously,  his  eyes  on  hers. 

"  Don't  look  at  me,"  she  said,  with  some  confusion.    "  It  is  so  light." 

"  I  believe  I  could  see  your  eyes  in  the  dark,  like  a  tiger's." 

"Don't  talk  so  loud.  He  hears  every  word.  They  understand  a 
great  deal  more  than  you  think.  Oh,  what  a  wonderful  tone  of  red 
that  field  is  !  Why,  it  has  a  bloom  on  it  like  a  grape." 

"  Yes, — lovely,  lovely.     Leave  your  hand  there,  please." 

"  I  never — really,  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  color.  And,  oh,  that 
broom-field  beyond,  with  the  dark  patches  1  And  the  belt  of  black 
woods  !  Oh  r 

"  Yes,  and  that  ragged  blue  line  beyond.  What  is  that  ?  Is  it  the 
Blue  Ridge?  No,  don't  take  it  away, — not  vet." 


476  THE    QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD 9 

"  Yes,  that's  the  Blue  Ridge.  I  wish  we  could  see  it  from  llo?e- 
mary.  But  you  should  drive  through  all  this  in  June." 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  I  mean  to.  Look  :  I  have  something 
to  ask  you.  It  isn't  much.  Look  :  I  just  want  to  take  off  your  glove. 
May  I  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  drawing  short,  difficult  breaths  ;  "  no.  How  can 
you  talk  to  me  like  that  ?" 

"  Good  heavens  !  how  am  I  to  talk  to  you  ?  You  should  have  lot 
me  go  as  I  meant  to.  Why  did  you  propose  to  drive  me  to  Charlottes- 
ville?  You  knew  how  it  would  be — - —  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  For 
give  me.  But  you  must  know  that  I  can't  be  near  you  without  telling 
you  how  I  feel  to  you.  You  must  know  that.  Did  you  expect  me  to 
drive  all  these  miles  like  a  stock  or  a  stone?  I'm  afraid  that's  not  as 
original  as  it  might  be,  eh  ?  But  look  :  let  me  take  your  glove  off?" 

In  reply  she  drew  her  hand  decidedly  out  of  his,  and  buried  it  in 
her  lap.  Her  face  was  turned  from  him  so  that  he  got  a  mere  sugges 
tion  of  her  profile,  but  he  saw  that  she  was  blushing  desperately. 

"  I  bother  you  so,"  he  said,  with  regret. 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.  Oh,  what  a  water-color  study  that  man  would 
make !" 

"  Excellent,"  admitted  Dering.  The  man  in  question  was  a  young 
negro  of  strapping  figure,  to  which  his  blue  jeans  shirt  and  trousers  had 
modelled  themselves  accurately.  On  his  head  was  a  moth-eaten  seal 
skin  cap  of  a  delicious  mingled  brown.  His  hands,  one  of  which  was 
bandaged  with  dirty  white  cotton,  were  clasped  behind  his  throat,  and 
he  carried  his  gun  through  his  bended  arms. 

On  his  trousers  a  brace  of  just-shot  hares,  dangling  to  and  fro,  had 
left  a  moist  crimson  stain.  It  was  the  highest  note  of  color  in  this 
Btudy  of  faded  blues  and  browns,  the  cotton  bandage  and  the  breasts 
and  tails  of  the  poor  "  molly-cottons"  being  the  only  high  lights,  so  to 
speak. 

"Isn't  he  like  one  of  what's-his-name's  aquarelles?  Look,  now! 
there,  as  he  comes  out  against  that  dull-yellowish  field, — there,  with  that 

patchy  gray  sky  above Oh,  I  wish  I  could  paint, — with  my  hands, 

I  mean  :  I  am  always  painting  pictures  to  myself  with  my  fancy." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Dering.  She  colored  deeply  again,  and  seemed  to 
have  caught  the  button  of  her  glove  in  the  fur  robe. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  he  suggested,  and,  having  done  so,  kept  her 
hand  in  his.  She  had  not  time  to  withdraw  it  before  they  were  aware 
from  "  Unc'  Joshua's"  back  that  something  unusual  was  going  on  in  the 
road  beyond.  There  is  nothing  more  expressive  than  a  negro  coach 
man's  back, — not  even  the  eyes  of  a  hungry  dog.  Apprehension  was 
written  in  the  hunched  curve  of  "  tTnc'  Joshua's"  vertobrse  and  the  out 
ward  crook  of  his  bowed  arms.  He  half  rose,  still  curiously  contorted, 
and  peered  from  side  to  side  between  his  horse's  ears. 

"  What's  up?  Sit  down.  What's  the  matter?"  said  Dering,  who 
was  sometimes  exasperated  by  the  theatrical  gymnastics  of  would-be- 
impressive  darkies.  "  Come,  what's  all  this  about  ?"  he  demanded  again. 

"  Suppn's  done  broke  down  in  de  road,  suh,"  rpplied  Unc'  Joshua, 
still  curving  and  peering, — "  a  wagon  or  suppu'." 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD*  477 

Dering  stood  np  also. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Barbara,  a  little  nervously. 

"  I  sees  !  I  sees !"  now  cried  Unc'  Joshua :  "  'tis  one  uh  dem 
young  Buzzies.  He  cyart  done  broke  down, — right  'crost  de  road,  too." 

"  One  of  the  Buzzies  !"  cried  Barbara,  in  dismay.  "  Good  gracious  1 
we  will  have  to  pick  him  up  if  his  trap's  broken.  It's  too  bad !  Look 
again,  Uncle  Joshua.  Are  you  sure  his  wagon's  broken?  Perhaps  the 
harness  is  just  tangled." 

"  Norm,"  said  the  old  black,  positively,  "dey  ain'  nuttin'  twangled 
dar.  'Tis  bust  all  tuh  scrakshuns"  (anglici  unknown). 

"  I  suppose  this  is  young  Buzzy  coming  here  now,"  said  Dering,  in 
a  surly  tone.  "  What  a  name  ! — Buzzy  /" 

"  It  isn't  near  as  bad  as  the  man,"  said  Barbara,  gloomily. 

Young  Buzzy  here  appeared  at  the  side  of  the  carry-all  and  thrust 
out  a  lank  hand,  exposing  a  frayed  red-flannel  undershirt-sleeve  in  the 
vehemence  of  his  gesture. 

"Howdy?"  he  said,  including  them  both  in  this  concise  greeting. 
"  Howdy,  Unc'  Joshua  ?"  he  added. 

Unc'  Joshua  removed  his  battered  silk  hat,  with  an  elaborate  shirt 
ing  of  lines  and  whip  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

"  Mornin',  suli,"  he  said, — "  mornin',  morninV 

"  I  certVy  am  lucky,"  pursued  Mr.  Buzzy,  again  addressing  Bar 
bara  and  Dering.  "  I  wnzn't  bawn  with  a  caul  for  nothin'.  Hyah  ! 

hyah  !  Ever  read  David  Copperfield,  Mr. Excuse  me,  but  are 

vou  Mr.  George  Pom  fret  ?" 

"  No ;  my  name's  Dering,"  replied  the  addressed,  whose  manner 
was  perfectly  courteous,  if  somewhat  frost-bitten.  Barbara  was  nibbling 
her  inner  lip  fiercely  and  trying  to  look  as  usual. 

"  Can't  we  help  you  ?"  pursued  Dering.  "  You  seem  to  have  com<> 
to  grief." 

"  Come  to  grief!"  echoed  the  other.  "Well,  it's  more  like  grief 
had  come  to  me.  Hyah  !  hyah  !"  And  he  laughed  again,  producing  a 
sound  like  that  made  by  a  stick  drawn  rapidly  along  an  iron  railing. 
This  laugh  jarred  so  on  Dering  that  he  felt  as  though  he  would  like  to 
loosen  his  skin  and  jump  out  of  it :  as  the  next  best  thing,  he  jumped 
out  of  the  carry-all  and  made  his  way  to  the  wreck  of  Mr.  Buzzy's 
trap.  That  gentleman  followed  shortly,  standing  resignedly  by  while 
Dering  inspected  the  chaos  of  wine-sap  apples,  potatoes,  and  bundles 
of  fodder  which  were  heaped  up  about  the  body  of  the  broken  wagon. 
Its  owner  ventured  no  explanation,  but  remained  passive,  holding  a 
hairy  wrist  in  either  hand,  and  rubbing  his  thumbs  about  on  his  arms 
underneath  his  red-flannel  shirt-sheeves.  He  was  otherwise  attired  in 
a  suit  of  snuff-brown  stripes  alternating  with  black,  wore  a  soft  gray 
felt  hat,  and  a  red  satin  tie  with  green  bars  across  it. 

His  face  was  of  a  shiny  fairness,  deepening  to  a  mottled  plum-color 
on  his  cheeks  and  th'e  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  his  eyebrows,  which  he 
continually  rubbed  the  wrong  way  with  one  of  those  restless  thumbs, 
were  of  a  pale  straw-color,  over  eyes  which  matched  the  tint  upon  his 
cheeks.  He  had  lost  a  tooth  directly  in  front,  and  could  not  keep  his 
tongue  from  incessantly  playing  in  and  out  of  this  unpleasing  hollow. 


478  THE   QUICK   OR    THE  DEAD  f 

Dering  felt  a  great  loathing  swell  his  throat,  and  as  Buzzy  sidled  nearer 
over  the  soggy  ground,  his  perfume  of  damp  cloth,  hair-oil,  and  stable 
did  not  mitigate  this  sentiment.  Was  it  possible  that  he  and  Barbara 
would  have  to  drive  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Charlottesville  behind  that 
reeking  personality  ? 

"  I  suppose  the  old  nigger  and  you  and  I  couldn't  patch  it  up 
between  us?"  he  suggested  at  last,  but  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Not  'less  we  could  work  meracles,"  replied  young  Buzzy.  "  No, 
that  wagon's  a  goner." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  said  Dering. 

"  It  certVy  is,"  affirmed  its  owner. 

XI. 

Dering  remained  silent  after  Buzzy's  last  remark.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  make  any  suggestion  concerning  a  more  practical  spe 
cies  of  aid, — namely,  the  transference  of  Buzzy  and  his  goods  and 
chattels  to  their  vehicle.  They  walked  back  to  the  carry -all  in  silence. 

"  Can  you  do  anything  about  it  ?"  said  Barbara. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  replied  Dering,  sadly. 

Barbara  was  also  silent,  struggling  with  the  same  distaste  which 
had  tied  Dering's  tongue.  Young  Buzzy  kept  a  steady  and  resigned 
gaze  upon  the  wagon,  still  thumbing  his  lean  arms.  Finally  Barbara 
said,  with  a  sort  of  burst, — 

"  Can't  we  give  you  a  lift  ?" 

"  I  wuz  thinkin'  'bout  that,"  replied  the  unfortunate.  "  I  cert'n'y 
would  be  ubbliged." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  your  horse  ?"  here  suggested  Dering,  with 
a  sudden  hope. 

Mr.  Buzzy  was  quite  prepared  for  this  emergency.  "  I'll  give  the 
little  darky  somethin'  tuh  lead  him,"  he  replied,  adding,  with  a  kind 
of  tilt  in  Barbara's  direction,  "  With  your  permission,  uv  co'se." 

"  Why,  certainly,"  she  answered. 

He  went  off  to  attend  to  this  little  transaction,  and  Barbara  and 
Dering  clutched  each  other's  hands  with  a  simultaneous  movement. 

"  Will  we  have  to  take  him  all  the  way?"  said  Dering,  almost  tear 
fully. 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  entirely  tearful. 

There  was  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  made  her  feel  as  though  she 
had  swallowed  a  hot  hard-boiled  egg,  shell  and  all,  and  it  had  stuck 
just  below  the  root  of  her  tongue.  Their  hands  tightened,  they  cast  a 
desperate  glance  about :  young  Buzzy  was  again  approaching  them. 

"  It's  damnable  !"  said  Dering,  with  perhaps  pardonable  violence, — 
especially  as  he  apologized  immediately  afterwards. 

"  No,  don't  apologize,"  urged  Barbara,  hurriedly.  "  I  say  it's — it's 
'  damnable'  too !" 

They  burst  out  laughing  just  as  Buzzy  came  up. 

"  We  were  laughing  at  my  poor  little  follower's  evident  fright  about 
leading  your  horse,"  explained  Barbara,  with  suave  mendacity. 

"  He  is  right  skeered,"  Mr.  Buzzy  admitted,  "  but  he'll  git  over  it. 


THE   QUICK  OR   1HE  DEAD*  479 

'  Jinks'  always  balks  at  firs', — '  Jinks'  my  hawse,  yuh  know.  It's 
mighty  kind  in  you  to  give  me  a  lif,  Miss  Barb — I  mean  Mis'  Porn- 
fret.  Excuse  me,  but  that '  Missis'  business  always  sticks  in  my  throat 
when  I  look  at  you.  You  don't  look  a  day  older'n  you  did  when  we 
boys  an'  girls  used  tuh  dress  the  church  for  Chris'mus — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  Mr.  Buzzy,"  here  interpolated  Dering, 
"  but  Mrs.  Pomfret  is  kindly  driving  me  to  Charlottesville  to  catch  the 
6.30  train,  and  I  wouldn't  like  to  miss  it." 

"  Cert'u'y — cert'n'y,"  said  Mr.  Buzzy,  who  still  hesitated,  however. 
He  sidled  towards  Unc'  Joshua  and  took  him  into  his  confidence  in  an 
undertone.  "  Say,  Unc'  Joshua," — it  was  thus  that  he  expressed  him 
self, — "  's  there  any  room  fur  them  pertaters  'n'  wine-saps  onder  the 
^eat  or  anywhere?  It'll  mean  a  drink  in  Charlottesville,  yuh  know." 

While  he  and  Unc'  Joshua  arranged  this  matter,  Barbara  and  Dering 
again  devoured  one  another's  rebellious  faces  with  hungry  eyes.  All  at 
once  Dering  stooped  and  pretended  to  be  arranging  something  on  the 
floor  of  the  carry-all.  In  truth  he  was  pressing  his  lips  rapidly,  first 
against  Barbara's  gown,  and  then  against  the  curve  of  her  instep. 

"  Oh,  don't !  don't !"  she  urged,  in  a  vehement  whisper.  "  My 
horrid  boot !  Oh,  don't ! — PLEASE  !" 

He  lifted  his  head,  a  little  flushed,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  certain 
brilliancy,  as  of  one  who  has  been  drinking  wine.  At  the  same  moment 
Mr.  Buzzy  came  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  carriage. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me"  he  remarked,  "  I'll  git  one  ur  two  pa'ceta 
'fore  we  start." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Barbara  again,  and  again  Mr.  Buzzy  went  off 
in  the  direction  of  his  wagon.  He,  his  wine-saps  and  potatoes,  being 
safely  stowed  away,  they  started  towards  Charlottesville,  stopped  every 
now  and  then  by  young  Walsingham's  appeals  for  help  regarding  the 
recreant  Jinks,  who,  as  his  master  had  said,  balked  sometimes.  Buzzy 
himself  was  inclined  to  be  talkative,  and  told  various  anecdotes,  in- 
fjuding  Unc'  Joshua  in  the  conversation,  with  great  geniality. 

"  Name  of  a  dog,"  exclaimed  Dering,  in  French,  "  this  is  atrocious  !" 

"  Name  of  a  blue  pig,  it  is !"  replied  Barbara,  gravely.  They 
laughed  again. 

"  Yo're  laughin'  reminds  me,"  said  Mr.  Buzzy,  "  of  a  story  my 
ole  Unc'  Nelson  Cunnin'ham  use'ter  tell."  And  forthwith  they  were 
regaled  with  one  of  the  extremely  long  anecdotes  of  Mr.  Nelson  Cun 
ningham. 

"  Please  put  your  hand  on  my  knee  again, — just  once,"  urged  Dering, 
under  cover  of  the  boisterous  hilarity  which  his  own  anecdotal  powers 
had  called  forth  in  Mr.  Buzzy.  "  I  won't  touch  it  if  you  tell  me  not 
to."  He  waited  anxiously,  and  was  presently  rewarded  by  a  soft  clasp 
upon  his  knee,  which  sent  such  a  delightful  thrill  through  him  that  he 
actually  smiled  in  response  to  Mr.  Buzzy 's  toothy  grin. 

"  That's  what  I  call  a  first-rater,"  announced  the  latter,  appealing 
afterwards  to  Unc'  Joshua.  "  What  you  think,  Unc'  Joshua  ?" 

"  Fus'-rate,  suh, — fus'-rate  !"    _ 

"  Hyah !  hyah !  Unc'  Joshua,  you  know  a  good  story  when  you 
hear  one — eh  ?" 

VOL.  XLL— 31 


480  THE   QUICK   OR    THE  DEAD? 

"  Yes,  mik  1     Hyah  !  hyah  !" 

"  Br-r-r  !  I  wish  we  could  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  !"  said  Dering, 
in  overwhelming  disgust. 

"  It  is  dreadful,"  admitted  Barbara.  "  But  here's  the  Long  Bridge. 
We  are  nearly  there." 

"  What  a  lovely  country  it  is  !"  breathed  Bering,  leaning  far  out  to 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  pretty  hills  that  hug  Charlottesville,  before  they 
were  en-tunnelled  by  the  Long  Bridge.  "  I  am  never  so  glad  that  I  am 
a  Southerner  as  when  I  drive  near  Charlottesville  on  a  day  like  this." 

"  Or  when  you  think  that  a  few  like  Mr.  B.  are  your  compatriots," 
suggested  Barbara,  who  was  so  bitterly  unhappy  that  she  felt  like  in 
dulging  in  wild  laughter.  As  the  rumble  of  the  Long  Bridge  drowned 
their  voices,  they  could  talk  more  unrestrainedly. 

"  You  were  so  good  to  come,"  said  Dering,  to  whom  the  novelty  of 
the  idea  made  this  remark  seem  ever  novel. 

"  I  wanted  to  come,"  answered  Barbara,  who  found  no  monotony  in 
lliis  reply. 

"  And  you  will  telegraph  if  you  need  me, — or — or — anything?" 

"Yes." 

"  Promise." 

"  Well." 

"  Say  you  promise." 

"  I  promise." 

He  got  his  arm  around  her  :  for  an  instant  she  breathed  difficultly 
against  his  side ;  then  they  rolled  out  again  into  the  faded  daylight. 

"  My  Unc'  Nelson  Cunningham  use'ter  say  he  had  eyes  in  the  skin 
of  his  back,  like  a  pertater,  when  he  sat  befo'  two  young  folks  goin' 
thoo'  a  tunnel,"  remarked  Mr.  Buzzy,  jovially,  as  the  horses  struck  out 
again  into  a  round  trot.  "  Hyah  !  hyah  !" 

"  Hyah  !  hyah  !"  chuckled  Unc'  Joshua. 

"  Beast !    I'd  like  to  choke  him !"  ejaculated  Dering  between  his  teeth. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  of  a  lively  flame-color. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  perriciate  my  remarks  ?"  here  put  in  Mr.  Buzzy, 
to  whom  this  twisting  of  words  constituted  a  form  of  humor. 

"  I  don't  think  we'  were  listening  at  the  time  of  your  last  observa 
tion,"  said  Dering,  grimly. 

«  I  said  my  Unc'  Nel " 

"  Good  gracious  !  is  the  Rivanna  always  so  swollen  at  this  time  of 
the  year?"  asked  Barbara,  looking  out. 

"  Pen's  on  th'  rains.     I  said  my  Unc' " 

"  The  raias?  But  then  it  always  rains  a  good  deal  in  November, 
doesn't  it?" 

"  Well,  right  smart,  gen'lly.     Unc'  Nelson  said " 

"  Oh,  yas,  I  remember  now,  of  course.  I  wonder  if  any  one  could 
swim  the  Rivanna?" 

"  I  done  it,  lars/  summer,"  announced  Buzzy,  with  an  impressive 
seriousness.  He  twisted  about,  hanging  both  arms  over  the  back  of  the 
seat,  and  looking  down  at  that  lazy  river  as  though  he  expected  from 
it  some  sign  of  recognition. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  good  swimmer." 


THE  QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD  9  4g) 

"Tolabul.  Torm  Cuunin'ham — my  Unc'  Nelson  Cunnin'ham's 
boy — kin  outswim  me,  though.  That  boy  kin  swim  ! —  You  know  him, 
Unc' Joshua?" 

"  Sut'n'y,  suh, — sut'n'y,  sut'n'y.     Marse  Torni  kin  swim  !" 

"  You  mus'  remember  him,  Miss  Ba — excuse  me,  Mrs.  Pomfret, — 
don't  you  ?" 

"  Oli,  yes,"  said  Barbara,  vaguely.  It  was  a  species  of  utter,  apa 
thetic  misery  that  had  seized  her.  They  had  now  entered  Charlottes- 
ville,  and  the  drenched,  forsaken  village  streets  were  beginning  to  depress 
her  unutterably. 

"  Drive  us  a  little  way  up  Park  Street,  Uncle  Joshua,"  she  said,  and 
leaned  back,  looking  silently  about,  as  they  rolled  along  this  charming 
avenue,  which  is  not  unlike  Lovers'  Lane  in  Newport. 

It  would  be  hard  to  decide  which  was  most  miserable,  Barbara  or 
Dering.  Buzzy's  presence  thrust  into  their  tdte-a-tdte  was  something 
as  when  a  New-Orleans  masker  during  Mardi-Gras  shoves  his  grotesque 
self  between  two  lovers  about  to  embrace.  Their  words  choked  them, 
and  they  not  only  saw  the  actual  Buzzy,  but  had  exasperating  visions 
of  brother  and  sister  Buzzies,  with  his  home  in  the  background, — a 
home  whose  whitewashed  walls  bore  many  excrescences  in  the  shape  of 
old  photographs  framed  in  round  walnut  frames,  whose  square  piano 
was  covered  with  a  red-and-black-starnped  woollen  cover,  whose  sofa 
was  of  green  reps  disgorging  black  horse-hair,  and  whose  hall  was 
carpeted  with  oil-cloth  and  strewn  with  round  rush  mats.  Besides,  it 
was  impossible  to  get  rid  of  him :  he  had  at  once  announced  his  in 
tention  of  "  sticking  by  them,"  to  see  Dering  off,  and  to  provide  for 
Barbara  when  he  should  be  gone  :  so  they  drove  to  the  station  still  with 
Buzzy  on  the  box-seat.  Barbara,  who  had  a  nervous  and  uncontrolla 
ble  terror  of  locomotives,  grasped  Dering's  hand  unceremoniously  as 
they  neared  the  net-work  of  tracks. 

"  Hyah  !  hyah  !"  whispered  Buzzy,  whose  shoulders  they  saw  move 
hilariously. 

"  Hyah  !  hyah  !"  echoed  Unc'  Joshua,  huskily. 

They  got  out  of  the  carry-all  in  a  dumb  but  violent  passion,  and 
walked  together  to  the  waiting-room. 

This  waiting-room  was  big  and  airy,  and  when  they  entered  there 
was  no  one  else  in  possession.  Mr.  Buzzy  officiously  darted  off  to  see 
after  Dering's  luggage,  and  they  were  at  last  free  to  indulge  in  conver 
sation  without  an  audience.  Unfortunately,  all  the  tumultuous  ideas 
which  had  clamored  for  vent  in  the  carry-all  seemed  now  to  have 
followed  hot  on  the  heels  of  the  vanished  Buzzy. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  clock's  right  ?"  ventured  Dering. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Barbara.  "They  wouldn't  dare  have  it 
wrong." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  admitted.  "  Then  I've  got  three-quarters 
of  an  hour." 

"  A  little  more  than  that.     Suppose  we  sit  down  ?" 

"  Good  Lord  !  what  an  oaf  I  am  !     You  must  be  tired  to  death." 

They  sat  down,  after  Dering  had  made  an  elaborate  arrangement  of 
his  satchel  and  overcoat. 


482  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADf 

"  Thirty-nine  minutes  now,"  said  Barbara.  "  Does  a  waiting-room 
depress  you  as  it  does  me?" 

"  I  don't  think  anything  could  be  worse." 

"  I  almost  wish  I  hadn  t  come." 

"  Don't  say  that !"  He  slipped  his  hand  through  the  hollow  arm 
of  the  seat,  and  took  surreptitious  possession  of  her  now  ungloved 
fingers. 

"  Mind,"  she  whispered,  "  the  ticket-agent  is  just  opposite." 

"  Disgusting  !"  murmured  Dering.  They  were  silent  for  a  second 
or  two,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  took  a  small  object  from  his  pocket 
and  laid  it  in  her  lap. 

"  I  want  you  to  keep  that,"  he  said.  "  It's — it's  the  prayer-book 
I  was  telling  you  of, — the  one,  you  know,  I  found  that  in, — about  the 
*  living,'  you  know.  Don't  shrink,  darling." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  sudden,  wild  movement  that  caused  the 
little  volume  to  slip  on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy  ! 
I  am  so  unhappy !"  she  said,  giving  him  her  clinched  hands,  and  with 
drawing  them  as  suddenly.  Both  stooped  together  to  lift  the  fallen 
prayer-book. 

"  Perhaps  this  will  help  you.  You  won't  let  me  help  you,"  he 
said,  despairingly.  She  sank  back  between  the  iron  arms  of  her  chair, 
holding  the  book  against  her  breast,  and  moving  her  lips  slightly  as 
though  in  prayer.  Dering  bent  down  his  head  near  her. 

"  Say  something  for  me,"  he  whispered,  shakenly. 

"  I  am  ;  I  am.     It's  what  I'm  doing." 

"  God  keep  you,  my  pure  one,  my  true  one  !" 

"  Well,  ef  you  two  knew  the  trouble  I'd  had  checkin'  yo'  thousand- 
and-one  trunks,  sir,  you'd  take  up  a  subscription  for  me  right  here  in 
this  station-house !"  ejaculated  at  this  juncture  the  voice  of  Mr.  Buzzy. 

Dering  looked  up  at  him  from  under  his  lowered  brows  with  a 
quietly  murderous  expression ;  Barbara,  bending  over,  pretended  to  be 
tying  her  shoe. 

"  How  many  of  them  cur'ous  boxes  have  you  got,  anyhow  ?" 
pursued  the  young  gentleman,  entirely  unconscious.  He  wiped  his 
whole  face  and  the  spaces  behind  his  fat  ears  with  a  large  purple-and- 
white  silk  handkerchief,  regarding  the  fabric  afterwards  intently,  and 
then  crumpling  it  into  his  hat,  which  he  replaced  on  his  head.  "  Why 
don'  chu  charter  a  cyar  'n'  chuck  yore  things  in  that  ?  'T'ould  be  a 
heap  less  trouble.  Well,  here  yo'  checks." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dering,  pocketing  them.  "  I'm  sorry  you  had  so 
much  trouble." 

"  Oh,  'twa'n't  any  reel  trouble,"  replied  Buzzy,  genially.  "  I  was 
jes'  gassin'.  Look  hyuh  :  wouldn't  you  like  somethin'  tuh  eat? — both 
o'  you  ?  They've  got  a  reel  nice  resterrant  hyuh." 

"  Nothing, — nothing  at  all,  thank  you,"  replied  both,  hastily. 

"  Not  a  cupper  coffee  ?  Some  tea,  then  ?  They  have  firs'-ratc 
i'scream — sommer  that  ?  Not  a  thing  ?  Well,  Miss — a — Misses  Pom- 
fret  '11  die  'fore  she  gits  home  :  you  may  git  on  a  buffet  cyar.  Lemme 
git  you  a  cupper  tea  ?" 

This  monologue  was  interspersed  with  a  series  of  "  No,  thank  yous/' 


THE  qUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  483 

"No,  thanks,"  from  Barbara  and  Dering.  Their  tormentor  finally 
desisted. 

"  Well,"  he  ejaculated  at  last,  "  think  I'll  set  down." 

Barbara  and  Dering  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  that  groaned. 
They  had  now  a  scant  twenty  minutes. 

"  Yo'  train's  due  in  twenty  minutes,"  said  Mr.  Buzzy,  blithely. 
"  Got  all  yo'  things  together  ?" 

"  Yes,"  snapped  Dering. 

"  That's  right.  I  reckon  you're  right  use'ter  travellin'.  Ben  all 
over  Europe,  haven't  yuh  ?" 

"No." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  yuh  cert'n'y  look  hit." 

"  Did  you  say  my  train  was  due  in  twenty  minutes  ?" 

"  Seventeen,  now." 

"  Would  you  mind  asking  if  it's  on  time  ?" 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Buzzy.     "  'Tis." 

Barbara  felt  as  though  she  could  not  stand  it  another  moment. 
Her  ears  sang,  and  she  hated  Buzzy  in  a  way  that  astonished  herself. 
She  thought  that  she  would  almost  rejoice  to  see  the  Express  that  was 
to  bear  Dering  from  her  roll  over  the  odoriferous  body  of  the  other. 
She  stood  up  to  her  full  height,  with  a  quick,  gasping  breath,  and  then 
sat  down  again. 

"Are  you  ill?"  said  Dering,  in  alarm. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  said  Buzzy,  also  scrambling  to  his  feet. 

"  Nothing.     I  was  crushing  my  dress." 

"  Ha  !  tJiat  /"  laughed  Buzzy.  "  You  shot  up  in  such  a  hurry  I 
reckoned  yore  bustle  must  have  springs  in  it !" 

"  Mr.  Buzzy,"  said  Deiiug,  in  elaborately  slow  and  distinct  tones, 
"  I  have  something  of  importance  to  say  to  Mrs.  Pomfret,  and  I  have 
now  only  thirteen  minutes  in  which  to  say  it.  Could  you  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  leave  us  together  ?" 

If  he  had  thought  to  freeze  Buzzy  by  this  frigid  and  biting  address, 
he  was  vastly  mistaken. 

"  Cert'n'y, — cert'n'y,"  acquiesced  that  personage  at  once.  "  Why 
didn't  you  tip  me  the  wink  ?  I'd  er  twigged.  Reckon  I'll  go  V  git 
a  Bnack."  And  he  went. 

XII. 

"  Now  !"  said  Dering,  looking  at  her.  His  look  was  so  intense,  so 
beseeching,  that  she  imagined  herself  in  his  arms. 

"  My  heart  aches  so  ! — it  aches  so  !"  she  said,  piteously.  Her  lip 
began  to  quiver,  and  she  turned  from  him,  having  that  wisdom  which 
teaches  a  woman  to  let  a  man  observe  the  signs  of  her  grief  everywhere 
save  in  her  face.  She  did  not  want  Deriug  to  carry  away  a  picture  of 
her  features  pursed  up  in  the  ridiculous  distortions  of  real  sorrow. 

"  It  aches  so !"  she  said,  again.  "  I  wish  1  could  cut  it  out !" 
She  ground  her  teeth  a  little  savasHy.  "I  suffer  loo  much!"  she 
panted. 

Dering  came  close  to  her.  His  heart's  core  yearned  over  her,  but 
he  had  a  consciousness  in  the  very  curls  on  the  back  of  his  head  that 


484  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

the  ticket -agent  was  regarding  them  interestedly  through  his  little 
window. 

"  My  love, — nay  heart's  heart, — what  can  I  do  ?"  he  whispered. 
"  What  can  I  say  ?  You  will  let  me  write  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice.  It  hurt  her  to  think  that 
he  had  considered  not  writing  as  a  possibility.  The  big  railway-clock 
ticked  on  pompously. 

"  Can't  you  stop  that  odious  thing  ?"  she  asked,  and  then  began  to 
laugh  hysterically. 

"  Hush !"  said  Dering,  taking  her  upper  arms  into  a  firm  grasp, 
and  looking  at  her  with  bright,  masterful  eyes.  "  This  has  been  too 
much  for  you/'  he  said,  regretfully,  as  they  sat  down  again.  "  It 
wouldn't  have  been  if  that  gr-r-r —  that  bad-smelling  scoundrel 
hadn't " 

Here  Barbara  began  to  laugh  again  :  he  tried  to  silence  her  as  before, 
and  ended  by  joining  in. 

"Oh,  how  ghastly  it  all  is!"  she  exclaimed,  finally,  as,  their  parox 
ysm  over,  she  began  to  wipe  her  eyes  with  little  sideward  sweeps  of 
the  different  hems  of  her  pocket-handkerchief.  Then,  with  a  violent 
start,  "  Oh  !  is  he  coming  again  ?  I  thought  I  heard  him." 

"  If  he  does,  there'll  be  one  Buzzy  less  in  his  apparently  prolific 
family,"  replied  Dering,  grimly. 

"  Well,  never  mind  him.  Say  something  to  me  that  I  can  remem 
ber, — something  gentle.  Oh,  God  !  I  am  so  wretched  !" 

"  Listen,  then.     I  love  you, — I  love  you, — I  LOVE  you." 

"  Hush  !  be  careful !  Thank  you.  Oh,  you  are  so  good  ! — Oh  ' 
look  at  that  horrible  baby  !" 

"  Gir-r-r  !     Why  did  you  call  my  attention  to  it  ?" 

"But  it  is  so  hideous.  It  fascinates  me.  Look  !  look!  Why,  its 
head  wobbles  about  just  like  '  She's' !" 

"  Isn't  that  rather  ungrammatical  ?"  he  asked,  making  the  national 
joke  then  in  vogue. 

"  And  its  hands  ! — they  are  all  creased,  as  if  they  had  been  washed 
and  rough-dried  and  never  ironed  out.  Isn't  that  little,  blue-worsted 
cap  it  has  on,  awful  ?  I  suppose  that  woman  is  its  mother.  Look  at 
her  poking  it  under  the  chin  !  How  can  she  !  Oh  !  it's  blowing  bub 
bles  out  of  its  mouth.  Oh,  how  awful !  Can't  we  get  away  from  it  ? 
— anywhere  ! — anywhere  !  Let's  go  out  on  the  platform." 

She  dragged  him  out  just  in  time  to  see  his  train  come  in.  As  it 
clanked  by,  she  lifted  her  great,  wretched  eyes,  heavy  with  shadows, 
full  to  his. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  ten  hearts,"  she  said,  "  each  too  big  for  me,  and 
as  if  every  time  those  heavy  wheels*turned  over  they  crushed  one." 

"  Darling  !"  was  all  that  he  could  answer,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty. 

"  Will  you  write  from  Washington  ?" 

"  This  very  night.  I'll  write  on  the  train  and  post  it  when  we  get 
to  Washington.  Barbara?" 

"  Yes.     What  is  it  ?     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Do  you — love  me — just  a  little?" 

"  You  know  I  do.     It  is  different,  but  I  do.     Dearly, — dearly." 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE   DKAD1  485 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  <  different'  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'll  write  it  to  you.  Don't  let  those  men  run  so 
near  you  with  those  great  trucks  :  it  makes  me  nervous." 

"  Then  you  will  write  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  They  will  be  very  stupid  letters,  though.  There  isn't  any 
thing  to  write  about  here." 

"  You  silly  dear  !"  Barbara  winced.  "  As  if  I  wanted  to  hear  about 
anything  but  yourself  !  You'll  put  tJuzt  in  sometimes,  won't  you?  And 


"I  reckon  you'd  better  be  giltiu'  yo'  things  together,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Buzzy,  who  here  came  towards  them,  nibbling  the  end  of  a  chicken 
wing.      "  Excuse  me,  but  this  fried  chick'n's  too  good  tuh  let  slide. 
I'll  take  yo'  satchel,  suh." 

"Thanks,"  said  Dering.  lie  turned  and  grasped  Barbara's  hands 
once  more,  as  Buzzy  disap]>eared  into  the  sleeper.  They  both  tried  to 
speak,  swallowed,  and  murmured  some  indistinct  words,  which  were 
drowned  in  the  noise  of  a  passing  truck.  The  locomotive  gave  a  series 
of  hoarse,  barking  whistles,  and  the  bell  began  to  clang  slowly,  while 
the  jarring  "jink-jank"  of  a  train  about  to  move  off  passed  through 
the  whole  fabric.  Deering  loosed  her  hands,  clutched  them  once  more, 
gave  her  a  heart-broken  look,  and  plunged  into  the  Pullman,  just  as 
Mr.  Buzzy  swung  staggering  off  on  the  platform.  Barbara  had  with 
drawn  at  once  into  the  waiting-room,  and  was  busy  gathering  up  her 
muff  and  umbrella,  when  Buzzy  rejoined  her. 

"  I  say,  now,"  he  began,  in  a  cajoling  tone,  "  come  V  have  a  littk 
snack.  The  coffee's  jes'  ez  hot  V  good.  Will  you?" 

"  Thank  you,  I'm  not  at  all  hungry,"  stammered  poor  Barbara. 
The  spell  of  the  horrible  waiting-room  was  upon  her,  and  she  could  not 
imagine  how  happiness  ever  came  to  human  beings  who  lived  in  a 
world  inhabited  also  by  locomotives,  negro  porters,  and  young  men  of 
Buzzy's  ilk.  She  stared  at  him  absently  with  her  wide,  beautiful  eyes, 
twisting  the  folds  of  her  umbrella  tighter  and  tighter  in  her  strong, 
ungloved  hands. 

"  I'm  not  at  all  hungry,"  she  said,  again. 

"  Some  wine,  then,"  he  urged.  "  You  look  mighty  pale.  Virginia 
claret's  firs'-rate,  —  mh  ?" 

"  I'm  not  thirsty  ;  thank  you  very  much." 

"  Well,  but  jes'  fuh  med'cine,—  mh  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  anything.  I  don't  want  any  wine,  thank  you,  Mr. 
Buzzy." 

Buzzy  rubbed  one  of  his  lemon-colored  eyebrows  with  a  contempla 
tive  and  dubious  thumb. 

"  Uv  co'se,  ef  you're  bent  on  it,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Barbara,  vaguely. 

When  she  got  into  the  cab  which  he  had  ordered  for  her,  he  stepped 
in  also. 

"  Jes'  drive  with  you  to  th'  liv'ry-stable  'n'  see  you  in  yore  own 
cay'idge,"  he  explained.  "  Unc'  Joshua  took  his  horses  there  tuh  feed 
'm,  uv  co'se." 

"Of  course,"  said  Barbara. 


486  THE   QUICK  OR    THE   DEADt 

"CertVy  has  got  dark  sudden,"  he  exclaimed,  in  another  tone, 
peering  up  at  the  dim  sky,  first  through  one  window,  then  through 
the  other. 

"  Very,"  said  Barbara. 

" Choll'tt'sville  ain't  lighted  's  well  's  might  be,— is  it?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Barbara.  A  droll  sort  of  parody  on  a  celebrated 
saying  began  to  drum  regularly  in  her  ears.  She  repeated  it  over  and 
over :  "  Some  are  born  with  neighbors,  some  achieve  neighbors,  and 
some  have  neighbors  thrust  upon  them."  She  was  beginning  to  think 
that  Buzzy  meant  to  drive  all  the  way  back  to  Ilosemary  with  her. 
His  monotonous  voice  interrupted  her  revery  : 

"  Wonder  why  yo'  frien'  was  so  set  on  takin'  that  p'tic'lar  train  ?" 

"  He  wanted  to  be  in  New  York  to-morrow." 

"Well,  he  could  'a'  taken  th'  7.30  jes'  's  well." 

"What  7.30?"  said  Barbara,  excitedly. 

"  Why,  the  7.30  Express." 

She  looked  at  him,  feeling  a  quiver  run  through  her, — a  thrill  of 
indignation  and  disappointment.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  is 
another  train  that  goes  at  7.30?"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  Why,  cert'n'y,"  replied  Mr.  Buzzy.  He  took  off  his  hat,  regarded 
the  purple-and-white  material  with  which  it  was  brimming  over,  and 
then,  as  if  undecided,  placed  hat  and  contents  between  his  knees. 

"  Did  you  mention  that  to  Mr.  Dering  ?"  questioned  the  low  voice. 

"  Never  thought  tuh.  Thought  he  knew,  uv  co'se.  Hyuh  we  are  !" 
And  he  bounded  out  through  the  carriage  door,  which  only  opened  after 
vigorous  batterings  of  his  knee.  He  appeared  almost  simultaneously 
at  the  other  door,  through  which  he  thrust  his  affable  visage. 

"  3S  all  right,"  he  announced.  "  Unc'  Joshua's  all  ready, — jes'  gotter 
light  th'  candles.  Mr.  Payne'll  attend  tuh  them." 

She  leaned  back  in  apathetic  silence,  after  another  dreary  "  Thank 
you,"  and  watched  Mr.  Payne's  stalwart  figure  in  its  shiny  oil-cloth 
cloak,  which  reflected  back  the  white-gray  sky  in  a  faint  glisten.  A 
swift,  pattering  rain  was  falling,  although  through  the  fleecy  clouds  the 
light  of  a  full  but  unseen  moon  filtered  wanly.  "  I  don't  b'leeve  you'll 
need  no  candles,"  said  Mr.  Buzzy,  turning  around  and  around,  and  re 
garding  the  dripping  sky  with  face  and  hands  uplifted.  Mr.  Payne  put 
those  articles  in,  however,  and  Uuc'  Joshua  drove  off,  after  Barbara  had 
thanked  both  men  for  their  services. 

"  Oh,  it  don't  make  a  dit  o'  bifiference  !"  exclaimed  the  jovial  Buzzy 
in  return,  having  recourse  to  one  of  his  contorted  combinations  of  words. 

Barbara,  rolling  along  with  closed  eyes  over  the  rough  and  night- 
veiled  roads  that  led  from  Charlottesville  to  Rosemary,  tried  to  imagine 
what  Dering  was  then  doing.  She  fancied  him  asking  the  porter  some 
trivial  question,  raising  his  voice  a  little  in  order  to  be  heard  above  the 
incessant  clinking  of  surrounding  objects.  Then  he  took  out  a  memo 
randum-book  and  a  pencil.  He  began  his  letter  to  her.  She  tried  to 
fancy  the  first  words  as  they  would  look  when  written,  but  she  saw  so 
many  terms  of  endearment  that  she  was  undecided.  Her  imagination 
was  disturbed  by  visions  of  the  omnipresent  and  always  thirsty  child 
who  traverses  the  aisles  of  Pullman  sleeping-cars  in  the  direction  of  tht- 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD?  487 

water-cooler,  followed  by  an  anxious  nurse-maid  attached  to  the  end  of 
its  petticoat.  This  child  had,  in  her  imagination,  flaxen  hair  which  was 
begrimed  with  cinders,  and  a  corresponding  complexion.  It  drank  water 
incessantly,  spilling  it  copiously  over  its  fat,  chapped  chin,  and  when  it 
was  not  drinking  water  it  was  gnawing  a  large  drum-stick  of  chicken 
or  munching  huge  pieces  of  gingerbread. 

There  was  the  semi-invalid,  who  had  gone  to  sleep  with  her  head  on 
a  soot-streaked  pillow.  There  was  the  drummer,  who  had  also  gone  to 
sleep  in  a  quilted  travelling-cap,  with  a  fat  hand,  ornamented  by  a  large 
blood-stone  ring,  displayed  upon  his  gay  trousers.  There  was  the  young 
demoiselle  with  abundant  curls  and  giggles,  who  was  travelling  alone 
under  charge  of  the  conductor,  and  to  whom  the  conductor  was  now 
addressing  a  series  of  facetious  remarks.  There  was  the  section  full  of 
young  men  and  women  who  talked  in  such  loud,  boisterous  tones  that 
their  conversation  could  be  heard  above  everything  else.  There  was  the 
fat  woman  who  was  forever  putting  things  in  her  satchel  and  taking  them 

out ;  the  two  middle-aged  discussers  of  politics ;  the She  opened 

her  eyes  and  leaned  forward,  far  into  the  raw,  mist-laden  air.  The  hills 
were  a  blurred  outline,  the  fields  masses  of  rich  gloom.  She  had  one 
thing,  at  all  events,  to  be  thankful  for  :  she  was  not  in  a  Pullman  sleep 
ing-car. 

Unc'  Joshua  had  to  lift  her  bodily  out  of  the  carriage  in  his  strong 
arms  when  they  reached  Rosemary.  He  and  Rameses  almost  carried 
her  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom,  where  a  blithe  fire  was  blazing  and  a 
pretty  tea-table  drawn  up  before  its  glow.  Martha  Ellen,  on  turning 
to  greet  her  mistress  with  a  pleased  smile,  was  horrified  to  see  her  cast 
herself  on  her  knees  before  the  big  chintz-covered  chair  and  break  into 
wild  sobbing. 

"  Lor !  Miss  JBarb'ra  !  Lor !  Miss  Barb'ra,  chile  !  Lor  !  honey  !" 
she  ejaculated,  at  intervals.  "  Miss  Barb'ra, — my  own  Miss  Barb'ra, — 
don'  cry  so !  Don',  honey !  Lemme  go  fur  Sarah.  I'm  goin'  fur 
Sarah." 

She  flew  on  nimble  feet,  and  returned  with  this  Sarah,  who  was  a 
little,  delicate,  thin  woman  of  about  forty,  possessing  a  face  as  keen  and 
sweet  as  it  was  plain.  She  wore  her  black  wool  in  neat  masses  pinned 
close  to  her  head,  and  her  small  figure  in  its  close  black  gown  re 
sembled  an  exclamation-point,  so  slight  and  decided  was  it. 

Though  so  diminutive,  she  was  apparently  very  strong,  for  she 
stooped  and  lifted  Barbara  from  where  she  was  kneeling,  and  took  her 
on  her  breast.  She  said  nothing,  merely  motioning  Rameses  to  leave 
them,  by  a  certain  movement  of  her  head.  Then  she  began  to  rock 
herself  to  and  fro,  with  a  gentle,  crooning  sound,  such  as  women  make 
over  ailing  babies,  stroking  the  lovely,  copper-colored  head  on  her 
breast  from  time  to  time  with  her  tender,  dark  fingers,  sometimes  press 
ing  a  dusky  cheek  against  its  bright  lustre,  sometimes  reaching  up 
furtively  to  dash  the  tears  from  her  own  eyes. 

After  a  while  she  coaxed  her  mistress  to  lie  on  the  sofa,  while  she 
prepared  a  warm  bath  for  her,  moving  about  the  room  with  noiseless 
swiftness,  her  very  skirts  having  a  subdued  sound,  which  was  to  the 
noise  ma  le  by  the  skirts  of  other  women  as  a  whisper  is  to  laughter. 


488  THE   QUICK   OR    THE   DEAD* 

The  room  was  soon  fragrant  with  the  attar  of  roses  which  she  hat! 
shaken  into  the  tepid  water  until  it  was  milky,  and  she  then  arranged 
some  fine  linen  garments  on  the  bed,  and  leaned  over  her  mistress,  say 
ing,  in  a  delicious  guttural, — 

"  Miss  Barb'ra,  darlin',  yo'  barth's  ready.  I'll  go  out  in  th'  hall 
till  you  call  me." 

In  reply,  Barbara  reached  up  her  arms  and  drew  down  the  small, 
woolly  head  against  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh,"  she  sighed,  "  I  am  so  miserable !  I  am  so  miserable !  I  am 
so  miserable !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  darlin'  Miss  Barb'ra,  but  joy  comes  in  th'  mornin'." 

"Oh,  but  when  will  it  be  morning?  Comfort  me,  Sarah  !  Sarah, 
can't  you  comfort  me?  I  comforted  you  that  time  when  you  were  so 
unhappy.  Didn't  I  ?  Didn't  I  ?" 

"  Th'  dear  Lord  he  knows  you  did,  Miss  Barb'ra.  I'll  never  forget 
you, — no,  not  whiles  I  lives, — no,  not  when  I'm  dead.  I'd  come  to  you 
out  er  my  grave  ef  you  called  for  me." 

"Don't  talk  of  graves !— talk  of  life,— life,— life !  Oh,  Sarah, 
isn't  death  a  dreadful  thought  ?  Isn't  it  awful  ?  Don't  you  wish  we 
could  just  disappear, — just  be  snatched  away  somewhere,  and  nothing 
be  left  of  us  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy  !  Comfort  me  !  Comfort  me  ! 
Can't  you  think  of  anything  that  will  comfort  me  ?" 

"  Think  of  how  good  you  are,  darlin'.  That  ought  tuh  comfut 
you.  Think  how  ev'ybody  loves  you, — ev'ybody,  Miss  Barb'ra,  down 
to  my  po'  little  girl,  that  you  has  done  so  much  for.  She  thinks  they 
ain'  nobody  like  Miss  Barb'ra.  She  says  a  little  prayer  for  you  ev'y 
night.  Think  of  all  the  good  you  has  done.  Think  of  how  good  an' 
sweet  an'  kin'  you  are,  all  the  time,  to  ev'ybody.  Oh,  Miss  Barb'ra, 
darlin'  Miss  Barb'ra,  you  oughtn'  tuh  be  unhappy !  Now  take  yo' 
nice,  warm  barth,  an'  then  you'll  feel  so  much  better.  I  put  so  much 
scent  in  it,  th'  whole  room  smells  jes'  like  summer-time.  Come  on : 
yo'  pretty  little  night-gown's  all  ready,  an'  th'  white  furs  all  spread 
out  fur  you  tuh  stan'  on.  Come  on,  Miss  Barb'ra.  Let  Sarah  help  you 
up.  Think  of  how  ev'ylmly  loves  you, — th'  farm-nan's  an'  ev'ybody." 

"  Do  they  really  love  me,  Sarah  ?"  asked  the  girl,  in  the  childish 
tone  and  manner  that  always  accompanies  absolute  misery.  "  It  is 
good  to  be  loved :  isn't  it,  Sarah?  It  helped  you  that  time  for  me  to 
love  you :  didn't  it  ?  I'm  glad  they  love  me."  Then,  as  Sarah  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  "  Put  your  arms  around  me  once  more.  Hold 
me  tight, — tight, — tighter  still :  I  don't  care  if  it  hurts.  You  love 
me,— -don't  you,  Sarah  ?" 

"  Th'  dear  Saviour  in  heaven  he  knows  I  does,  Miss  Barb'ra." 

"And  you  think  I'll  be  happy  some  day?" 

"  Miss  Barb'ra,  I  knows  you  will, — I  knows  you  will." 

"And  will  you  pray  about  it?" 

"  I  duz  pray  about  it,  darlin'  Miss  Barb'ra.  They  ain't  no  time, 
night  or  day,  when  I  prays,  that  I  don't  pray  'bout  you.  Now  take 
yo  barth,  'fore  it  gets  cold." 

She  went  out,  closing  the  door,  which  Barbara  opened  almost  im 
mediately  afterwards. 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADf  489 

"Sarah " 

"Yes'm?" 

"  Sarah,  come  here  just  one  minute.  Just  hold  me  again  one 
minute,  and  say  you  think  I'll  be  happy." 

The  little  woman  clasped  the  beautiful  figure  with  fervent,  sinewy 
brown  arms. 

"  I  knows  you  will !"  she  reiterated.     "  I  knows  you  will !" 

"And  you  love  me?" 

"Miss  Barb'ra,  the  good  Lord  himself  will  have  to  make  you 
understan'  that.  I  can't  seem  to  do  it.  Darlin'  Miss  Barb'ra !" 

When,  having  taken  her  fragrant  bath,  Barbara  lay  like  some 
sweet-smelling  flower  between  the  fine  sheets  of  her  girlhood's  bed, 
Sarah,  kneeling  beside  her  in  the  firelight,  stroked  gently  and  unceas 
ingly  the  languid,  half-bare  arm  nearest  her. 

"  That's  so  good  !  that's  so  good  !"  murmured  the  girl,  in  a  tired 
voice.  Suddenly  she  roused  herself. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot !  Look  on  the  table,  Sarah,  and  hand  me  that  little 
book, — the  one  with  the  cross  on  it.  There ;  no, — a  little  farther  to 
the  end.  There,  that's  it."  She  took  it  eagerly,  and,  while  slipping  it 
under  her  pillow,  kissed  it  furtively. 

"  Rub  my  arm  some  more,  Sarah."  In  another  moment  she  started 
up  again.  "  Sarah,  bring  the  candle.  I'm  going  to  choose  a  verse. 
You  open  it.  What's  your  finger  on?  Read  it." 

Sarah  read  slowly,  in  her  uncertain,  soft  tone,  and  with  her  earnest 
face  close  to  the  fine  print.  It  is  quite  true  that  the  little  colored 
woman  read  the  following  words  to  that  beautiful,  distracted,  quivering, 
yearning  creature  in  the  bed  beside  her, — read  these  words : 

"  For  in  death  no  man  remembereth  thee,  and  who " 

"  That  will  do, — that  will  do,  Sarah.     Put  out  the  candle." 

As  the  warm  dusk  of  the  firelight  again  encompassed  them,  she 
reached  out  and  drew  Sarah  to  her  with  both  arms. 

"  You  don't  know  why,  dear,  but  that  was  a  message  to  me.  Per 
haps — I — may — be — happy — again." 

"  Miss  Barb'ra,  I  knows  you  will  !" 

"Well,  good-night,  little  Sarah.  Don't  forget  to  say  that  prayei. 
Will  you  rub  my  other  arm  a  little  longer  ?" 

XIII. 

It  is  true  that  Dering  had  made  an  attempt  to  write  while  on  the 
train,  as  he  had  promised,  but  it  is  also  true  that  he  was  obliged  to 
abandon  the  idea,  since  his  chirography,  at  no  time  good,  was  rendered 
entirely  undecipherable  by  the  motion  of  the  car.  He  replaced  note 
book  and  pencil,  and  gave  himself  up  to  contemplation  of  the  flying 
landscape.  It  was  dreary,  colorless,  monotonous.  The  ragged  negroes 
and  vehicles  at  the  tumble-down  stations  depressed  him.  One  horrible, 
legless  old  woman,  huddled  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  very  large,  wooden 
bread-trough,  was  made  radiant  by  all  the  loose  silver  in  his  pockets ; 
and  she  called  on  heaven  to  bless  him  until  the  train  was  out  of  hear 
ing-distance.  As  it  grew  darker,  the  squares  of  light  from  the  car- 


490  THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

windows,  flitting  up  and  down  on  the  uneven  ground,  made  him  dizzy. 
He  drew  down  the  curtain,  and  leaned  back  against  the  window-frame, 
closing  his  eyes.  The  horrible,  jarring  din  about  him  actually  inter 
fered  with  his  thoughts,  so  that  he  could  scarcely  recall  Barbara's  face 
as  he  had  last  seen  it,  sallow  and  pinched  with  grief;  but  he  remembered 
finally,  with  a  species  of  incredulity,  that  it  had  been  lovely  in  spite  of 
its  yellowish  tone  and  the  great  shadows  under  her  eyes.  How  she  had 
looked  at  him  that  last  second  !  His  heart  gave  a  hot  leap  along  his 
breast  to  his  throat,  leaving  a  fiery  track  behind  it  as  of  sparks.  He 
tried  to  fancy  her  beside  him :  they  were  married ;  her  wrap  and  um 
brella  were  on  the  opposite  seat ;  she  had  put  her  feet  up  beside  his : 
he  could  fancy  the  very  lights  that  would  sparkle  on  her  smart  var 
nished  boots.  She  would  pretend  to  read :  he  fancied  she  would  not 
talk  much  to  him  :  in  fact,  people  would  think  they  were  rather  bored 
with  each  other.  Then  he  would  call  her  attention  to  some  passing 
object,  and,  as  she  leaned  across  him  to  look,  he  would  kiss  the  great 
knot  of  her  sea-smelling  hair.  That  would  thrill  her  with  an  ex 
quisitely  delicate  sense  of  loving  and  being  loved  :  she  would  give  the 
subtle,  cowering  shiver  that  he  remembered,  and  press  slightly  against 
him  as  she  leaned  back  with  an  expression  more  coldly  bored  and  in 
different  than  ever.  It  suddenly  swept  over  him  that  with  each  abom 
inable  rattle  of  that  noisy  train  he  was  being  whirled  farther  and  farther 
away  from  all  those  delicate  charms.  What  if  she  were  to  be  ill  ? — to 
need  him  ?  What  if  she  were  ill  at  this  very  moment  ?  What  if  the 
mettlesome  steeds  of  Unc'  Joshua  were  dashing  in  a  mad  run  over  those 
wretchedly  rough  roads  ?  He  could  fancy  her  lying  senseless  in  that 
thick  gloom,  with  just  a  thin  stream  of  blood  from  her  temple  shining 
out  vividly.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  own  forehead. 

"  How  far  are  we  from  Washington  ?"  he  asked  the  porter,  who 
passed  by  at  that  moment. 

"  Be  'n  Eleksandria  'n  'bout  fift'  minutes,"  replied  the  man,  making 
quick  flourishes  over  the  back  and  arms  of  the  opposite  seat  with  a  large 
feather  duster. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dering. 

"  Kin  I  git  yah  anything,  suh  ?"  asked  the  porter,  in  tones  which 
meant,  "Won't  you  give  me  something?"  but  which  Dering  was  too 
worried  and  restless  to  notice. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said,  shortly,  and  then,  as  the  man  lingered, 
thrust  his  head  under  the  still  lowered  curtain  and  kept  it  there  until 
the  porter  had  disappeared. 

When  they  reached  Washington,  he  took  a  hansom  and  drove 
.  directly  to  Wormley's,  where  the  first  thing  he  asked  for,  after  securing 
a  room,  was  pen  and  paper.  He  got  so  nervous,  however,  after  he  had 
written  ten  lines  that  he  pushed  everything  aside,  and,  summoning  a 
waiter,  ordered  another  hansom  to  be  called  in  an  hour.  This  interval 
he  devoted  chiefly  to  a  cold  bath,  which  braced  him  up  a  good  deal, 
and  to  an  excellent  dinner.  He  then  plunged  into  the  cab,  after  the 
impetuous  fashion  which  distinguished  him,  ordering  the  bewildered 
cabby  to  drive  "  Anywhere." 

"  Anywhere,  sir  ?     How,  sir  ?     How  long,  sir  ?" 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD?  491 

"  Till  I  telJ  you  to  stop." 

"  All  right,  sir.  Cert'n*y,  sir.  Ten  o'clock,  sir.  Dollar  an  hour, 
sir." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  is," — grumpily.  "  And  if  you  tiy  to  beat  me  for 
more,  you'll  regret  it." 

"  Yessir.     All  right,  sir." 

Off  they  started, — clatter-clack,  clatter-clack,  b-r-r-r-r-r,  clatter 
clack,  clatter-clack,  clatter-clack,  b-r-r-r-r-r-r, — that  inimitable  sound 
of  wheels  and  horses'  feet  on  the  asphalt  which  Dering  usually  found 
so  delightful.  To-night  it  put  him  in  a  species  of  fever,  and  he  sat 
with  his  shoulders  drawn  up  in  a  rebelliously  surly  attitude.  It  seemed 
incomprehensible  and  unnatural  that  scarce  one  hundred  miles  away 
the  same  soft  rain  was  falling  on  those  muddy  Albemarle  roads,  blur 
ring  the  graceful  outline  of  the  hills,  and  frosting  Barbara's  window- 
panes.  Here,  in  the  biting  glare  of  electric  lights,  the  heavy  foliage  of 
the  trees  took  on  a  theatrical  seeming ;  they  appeared  like  shapes  cut 
out  of  dingy  green  card-board.  The  figures  of  hurrying  pedestrians 
reflected  downward  in  the  rain-washed  pavements,  and  the  similarly 
reproduced  cabs  with  their  steaming  horses,  reminded  him  of  clever 
Indian-ink  sketches  by  French  artists.  Was  it  possible  that  only  a  few 
hours  ago  Unc'  Joshua  had  been  driving  him  along  a  primitive  Vir 
ginian  turnpike,  with  Mr.  Buzzy  ensconced  upon  the  front  seat  ?  His 
whole  life  of  the  past  few  months  looked  unreal  to  him  in  this  wink 
ing,  blue-white  glare.  He  could  not  analyze  any  of  the  feelings  that 
tormented  him,  being  only  conscious  of  a  fierce  lack,  which  once  or 
twice  deceived  him  into  thinking  that  he  was  physically  hungry.  In 
the  midst  of  these  soaked  and  thronging  streets,  he  was  beset  by  an 
intolerable  sense  of  unimportance ;  he  had  no  acquaintances  in  Wash 
ington,  and  knew  very  little  of  the  town  itself,  else  he  would  have 
sought  out  some  person,  congenial  or  otherwise,  with  whom  to  pass 
those  dreary  hours  of  enforced  waiting. 

He  roused  suddenly  and  glanced  about  him.  They  were  passing 
the  White  House,  which  looked  in  the  electric  waver  like  a  large 
Christmas-card  ornamented  with  mica  and  with  windows  of  isinglass 
behind  which  lighted  candles  were  being  held.  Broken  gusts  of  chatter 
and  music  alternated  with  the  patter  of  the  horses'  feet  and  the  rumble 
of  wheels ;  the  trees  more  than  ever  resembled  those  of  the  foot-light 
Arcadia,  and  through  the  pale  sky  overhead  a  glittering  dust  seemed 
sifting,  as  though  through  a  great  sieve.  He  was  depressed  without 
knowing  why ;  the  very  brightness  and  diversity  of  the  passing  scene 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  gloom ;  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  stopped 
the  cab  a  moment,  to  bestow  five  dollars  on  a  hunchbacked  lad,  that 
his  spirits  rose  at  all.  These  acts  of  unguided  and  munificent  charity 
were  one  of  Dering's  panaceas  against  the  blues :  he  found  it  cheering 
to  remember  the  amazed  expressions  of  gratitude,  both  facial  and  vocal, 
that  were  turned  upon  him. 

When  he  reached  his  hotel  again,  he  once  more  attacked  the 
promised  letter  to  Barbara.  This  was  very  up-hill  work,  as  he  did 
not  know  what  manner  of  missive  she  expected  from  him,  and  was, 
moreover,  wholly  unused  to  writing  love-letters.  To  begin  it  was  im- 


492  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1 

possible.  "  My  dear  Barbara"  looked  too  cold  aud  unnatural.  "  My 
darling"  was,  under  the  circumstances,  out  of  the  question.  He  com 
promised  by  starting  off  abruptly :  "  Have  just  arrived  in  Washington, 
and  find  I  cannot  leave  until  9.15  to-morrow  morning."  Here  he 
stopped  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  which  was  a  large 
one  and  adapted  to  this  caged-beast  order  of  exercise.  It  struck  him 
that  thus  far  his  letter  was  too  telegraphic  both  in  style  and  matter,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  him.  Why  not  telegraph, 
merely,  from  Washington,  and  write  from  New  York?  He  put  this 
plan  into  execution  at  once,  and  on  the  next  morning  Barbara  received 
the  following  message,  which  had  originally  been  written  in  French, 
but  which,  owing  to  the  intricacies  of  Dering's  handwriting  and  to 
certain  deficiencies  in  the  education  of  the  telegraph  operator,  reached 
her  in  the  state  below  recorded  : 

"  Se  malhoornse  ma  fail)  tellemnt  de  mal  que  jetait  malade  pouvair 
pat  ecrire.  Pe  regrettig  pat  lee  passe,  ilyu  trap  di  futilite.  Rodedeus. 
Toujooe  at  voue." 

(No  signature.) 

She  had  been  in  such  a  nervous  state  all  day,  expecting  momen 
tarily  the  advent  of  that  promised  and  lengthy  bulletin,  that  the  effect 
of  this  unparalleled  billet-doux  was  to  throw  her  into  fits  of  genuine  if 
somewhat  frantic  laughter.  She  screamed  with  merriment  until  large 
tears  rolled  down  her  face  and  blotted  the  slip  of  yellow  paper  in  her 
hand  ;  then,  the  first  sense  of  humor  having  passed,  she  became  conscious 
of  a  keen  disappointment.  She  could  not  possibly  hope  for  a  letter 
until  three  days  had  passed,  and  in  the  mean  time  her  only  solace  would 
be  that  mangled  message  on  her  lap.  She  gave  the  hopeless  and  help 
less  sigh  of  a  woman  who  feels  that  she  could  make  better  love  than 
her  lover,  and  threw  herself  back  among  the  white  furs  on  her  sofa, 
trying  to  imagine  the  words  that  he  would  say  to  her,  rather  than  those 
which  he  would  write. 

XIV. 

Dering  in  the  mean  time  had  reached  New  York,  and,  after  an 
elaborate  and  regenerating  toilet,  was  sauntering  into  the  Manhattan 
Club  to  lunch  tMe-ti-ttte  with  his  thoughts  of  Barbara.  The  Letter  was 
as  yet  unwritten,  but  he  felt  material  for  it  accumulating  in  his  mind. 

As  he  entered  the  dining-room,  he  jostled  against  a  man  who  was 
also  going  in,  and,  turning  to  apologize,  recognized  an  acquaintance 
who  made  up  in  charm  what  he  lacked  in  youth.  He  was  a  Bostonian 
of  the  Bostonians,  but  this  fact  did  not  at  all  clash  with  his  present 
whereabouts,  as  Bostonians  seem  a  species  of  social  whale  that  have 
to  come  up  in  New  York  to  breathe.  What  did  somewhat  astound 
Dering,  however,  was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Everstone  Bean  poddy  projxjsed 
that  they  should  lunch  together, — distinguished  personages  of  a  certain 
age  generally  preferring  to  partake  of  youthful  society  and  Little-Neck 
clams  at  different  times ;  and  it  was  with  an  almost  overwhelmed  sen 
sation  that  Dering  seated  himself  in  the  chair  opposite  to  Mr.  Bean- 


THE   qUICK  OJR    THE  DEAD*  493 

poddy,  at  one  of  the  small  tables.  This,  by  the  way,  was  the  gentleman 
who  had  recommended  him  to  select  for  a  feminine  friend  a  woman  who 
had  kc  awn  some  great  sorrow,  his  reason  for  this  advice  being  that, 
having  known  grief  personally,  she  would  be  less  ready  than  most  of 
her  sisters  to  inflict  it  on  another. 

"  You're  looking  rather  fagged,"  he  now  remarked,  stretching  his 
fingers  among  the  wineglasses,  as  though  he  were  about  to  strike  a  chord 
on  some  instrument  and  awaited  the  harmonious  result  with  pleasure. 
"  Not  recovered  from  race- week  yet  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  in  town  on  race-week,"  said  Dering,  wondering  if  he 
had  better  answer  "  Washington"  or  "  Tuxedo"  to  the  question  that  he 
knew  would  follow,  and  vaguely  curious  as  to  the  unusual  mid-day 
genialness  of  Mr.  Bcanpoddy. 

"  Not  in  town,  eh  ?  I  must  have  a  better  look  at  you.  You  are  a 
remarkable  young  man.  Was  it  from  necessity  or  a  sense  of  duty  that 
you  absented  yourself?  And  if  you  weren't  in  town,  where  were 
you?" 

Dering  had  formed  his  lips  to  pronounce  the  name  of  the  Father 
of  his  Country,  when  Mr.  Beanpoddy  interrupted  him. 

"Ah,  I  remember  now,"  said  he:  "you've  been  in  Virginia. 
Some  one  told  me, — some  woman.  You've  a  cousin  there,  haven't 
you? — a  cousin  by  marriage, — young  Pomfret's  widow.  Some  one 
told  me  she  was  a  great  beauty, — another  woman,  too.  It  must  be 
true."  He  glanced  up  here,  and  saw  that  Dering  was  coloring 
furiously. 

"  Ah  !  so  that's  true,  too,"  he  continued,  calmly.  "Another  woman 
told  me  that.  Your  absence  during  race- week  is  quite  accounted  for. 
Am  I  to  condole  with  or  congratulate  you  ?" 

"Neither,"  said  Dering,  shortly,  and  then  forced  a  laugh,  feeling 
that  he  had  shown  temper. 

"  Then  I  will  congratulate  you  on  not  having  to  condole  with  you. 
Your  seedy  appearance,  however,  is  not  yet  accounted  for."  He  waited 
a  moment  or  two,  as  if  expecting  a  reply,  and  then  went  on :  "  In 
spite  of  your  expressive  and  laconic  reply,  my  dear  boy,  I'm  afraid 
that  you're  hard  hit, — down  on  your  luck,  so  to  speak.  I  remember 
we  had  an  interesting  conversation  on  the  subject  of  friendship  between 
the  sexes,  just  before  you  left  for  Virginia.  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
pardon  my  suspicions  when  you  reflect  on  the  exact  correspondence  of 
Mrs.  Valentine  Pomfret's  personality  with  a  bit  of  advice  that  I  gave 
you.  Let  me  add  one  thing.  If  any  one  were  to  ask  me  what  I  con 
sidered  grief,  of  any  kind,  most  nearly  to  resemble,  I  would  reply  by 
slightly  misquoting  the  words  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark, — '  a  mouse 
trap.'  If  you  ask  why,  or  if  you  will  allow  me  to  tell  you  why," 
pursued  Mr.  Beanpoddy,  in  whom  the  matutinal  vermouth  cocktail 
had  begun  to  stir  the  spirit  of  epigram,  "  I  will  say  that  grief  is  always 
a  trap.  We  walk  into  it  sometimes  quite  blindfold  ;  sometimes  the 
smell  of  the  toasted  cheese  which  it  contains  is  too  much  foi  us ;  some 
times  we  get  nipped  by  trying  to  help  some  brother  inous*  out.  But 
it  is  always  wiser,  in  the  event  of  being  caught,  to  content  ourselves  in 
the  fixed  compartment  with  such  of  the  cheese  as  remains,  rather  than 


494  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD? 

to  go  whirling  around  in  the  revolving  portion,  rubbing  out  nose 
against  the  wire,  exhausting  ourselves,  and  always  ending  where  the 
first  evolution  began.  At  least  such  is  my  experience." 

And  Mr.  Beanpoddy,  having  delivered  himself  of  this  monologue, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  over  the  back  of  which  he  strapped  his  nap 
kin,  holding  an  end  in  either  hand  and  looking  genially  at  Dering. 
The  latter  was  making  elaborate  designs  in  his  salt-cellar,  and  seemed 
absent-minded.  He  generally  gave  Mr.  Beanpoddy,  whom  he  considered 
a  brilliant  person,  the  whole  of  his  attention ;  but  on  this  occasion  he 
had  lost  half  of  the  other's  harangue  while  adding  to  the  material  for 
The  Letter,  and  he  had  just  composed  a  rather  telling  sentence  when 
the  above-mentioned  remark  was  addressed  to  him. 

"  That's  my  experience,"  repeated  Mr.  Beanpoddy.  He  lifted  a 
glass  of  Tokay,  squaring  his  lips  outward  as  it  touched  them  and  then 
inward  as  he  withdrew  it,  and  pressing  the  corners  of  his  mouth  deli 
cately  with  his  napkin. 

"  Everything's  a  trap  more  or  less,"  said  Dering,  pulling  himself 
together,  and  answering  rather  at  random. 

"  Ah  !  so  you  admit  it  ?"  replied  the  other,  smiling.  "  Now,  I  hope, 
my  dear  fellow,  that  you  don't  consider  all  this  tirade  officious.  The 
milk  of  human  kindness  tinged  with  officiousness  always  reminds  me 
of  the  real  fluid  tinged  with  wild  onion.  It  is  doubtless  just  as  real 
and  genuine  an  article,  but  certainly  it  is  very  unpalatable." 

"  How  could  I  think  you  officious,  Mr.  Beanpoddy  ?"  asked  Dering, 
with  some  of  the  petulance  of  a  child  who  is  awakened  in  a  strong 
light. 

Mr.  Beanpoddy's  brilliancy  was  bringing  tears  to  his  mind's  eye, 
and  he  could  not  ponder  on  his  absent  lady  in  a  glare  which  disclosed 
the  very  molecules  that  compose  thought,  as  particles  of  dust  are  dis 
closed  by  a  sunbeam.  "  You  are  only  too  kind  to  take  the  trouble,"  he 
added,  earnestly.  "  I  appreciate  it,  I  do  assure  you." 

"  You  are  most  tremendously  in  love,"  replied  Mr.  Beaupoddy. 

He  was  silent  a  few  moments,  rousing  himself  suddenly. 

"  See  here,  my  lad,"  he  remarked :  "  can't  you  tell  me  something 
about  her  ?  Is  she  handsome  ?"  A  nod  from  Dering.  "  Blonde  or 
dar "  Another  nod  interrupted  him.  "  Large  or " 

"  She  is  very  tall,"  said  Dering.  Then  he  turned  desperately  and 
faced  Mr.  Beanpoddy  point-blank.  "  I  do  love  her  with  every  inch  of 
me,"  he  said.  "  It  will  seem  absurd  to  you,  of  course,  but  I  felt  a  sneak 
until  I  had  said  it." 

He  hesitated,  rather  expecting  that  Mr.  Beanpoddy  would  contradict 
that  statement  concerning  the  absurdity  of  his  (Dering's)  condition  of 
mind ;  but  he  did  not.  .  He  played  with  a  long  light-colored  cigar  in 
his  well-kept,  very  handsome  hands,  on  which  the  veins  were  beginning 
to  appear  in  a  species  of  bas-relief,  and  merely  raised  one  of  his  eye 
brows  slightly. 

"  Such  statements  don't  sound  as  incredible  to  old  chaps  like  myself 
as  you  youngsters  imagine,"  he  said,  finally  :  "  only  it  is  like  having 
lost  an  arm, — the  sensation  of  hand  and  fingers  remains  with  us,  but 
we  can't  grasp  anything  with  them." 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD? 

To  this  Dering  made  no  reply.  It  struck  him  as  a  profoundly  sad 
remark,  and  yet  he  did  not  wish  to  take  it  too  seriously,  Mr.  Bean{x*ldy 
having  a  habit  like  that  of  an  April  sun,  of  smiling  suddenly  on  gloom 
which  he  had  evoked.  He  here  solved  the  difficulty  by  answering 
himself. 

"  It  is  better  to  have  one  arm  at  twenty  than  all  the  fifty  of  Briareus 
at  fourscore,"  he  remarked,  with  terse  conviction,  then  added,  witli  his 
delightful  smile,  which  was  bracketed  between  two  curving  dimples, 
"  If  I  had  that  number  of  hands,  my  dear  boy,  you  may  be  sure  they 
would  be  held  out  to  you,  each  with  a  separate  blessing  for  you  and 
your  sweetheart."  His  smile  here  became  less  genial  and  more  con 
densed  as  it  were,  having  a  quizzical  compression  that  elongated  the 
dimples. 

"  All  this  is  even  more  generous  than  it  seems,"  he  said,  moving  his 
wineglass  about,  so  that  its  gold  flecks  of  light  fell  upon  an  old  hoop- 
ring  of  small  diamonds  set  in  iron,  which  he  wore  on  his  right 
hand. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be,"  replied  Dering,  warmly.  "  My 
tongue  ties  itself  into  knots  whenever  I  really  want  to  express  myself.'' 

"  I  had  designs  on  you,"  interrupted  Mr.  Beanpoddy.  "  I  thought 
it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  have  you  for  a  great-nephew." 

Dering  once  more  colored  furiously. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  blush,  my  dear  boy ;  but  then  I  don't  kno\v  . 
Providence  is  considered  a  great  and  successful  match-maker,  eh  ?  Well, 
you  must  ask  me  to  your  wedding.  I  wish  I  could  attend  in  the  office 
of  miracle- worker  and  turn  the  waters  of  Existence  into  wine  for  you. 
However,  Love  is  the  god  who  is  supposed  to  do  that,  although  it's 
generally  the  wine  that  is  watered  on  such  occasions  nowadays.  One 
decants  one's  whole  allotted  life-portion  of  Perrier-Jouet  on  that  mo 
mentous  morning,  and  the  remainder  is  apt  to  become  flat,  or  else  our 
Hebes  trip  in  serving  it." 

"  But  if  one  doesn't  decant  it  all  ?"  suggested  Dering,  shyly. 

"  Then  the  air  gets  compressed,  and  the  bottles  fly  to  pieces  in  one's 
hands,"  replied  Mr.  Beanpoddy  at  once.  "  No,  no,  my  dear  fellow,  we 
cannot  drink  our  wine  and  have  it  too,  as  runs  the  saying  in  regard  to 
the  historical  doughnut.  If  we  can  merely  quench  thirst  with  what  in 
left,  we  should  be  grateful." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  famish,"  said  Dering,  curtly. 

"  You  think  so  now.  You  don't  happen  to  be  thirsty.  Passion  i» 
like  the  spiced  feasts  which  used  to  be  given  by  the  Inquisition  to  cer 
tain  unfortunates  who  were  doomed  to  be  famished.  I  don't  fancy  such 
individuals  would  have  been  very  particular  as  to  the  excellence  of  any 
liquor  which  might  have  been  offered  them.  Ah,  my  dear  boy,  there 
comes  for  us  all  a  time  when  we  echo  the  sentiments  of  the  philosopher 
who  said,  '  There's  no  such  thing  as  bad  whiskey.  Some's  better  than 
others,  but  it's  all  good.'" 

Dering  had  a  dim  idea  that  Mr.  Beanpoddy  was  walking  upon  water 
somewhat  beyond  his  own  depth,  but  which  upbore  him  in  obedience  to 
a  certain  mysterious  power  which  he  wielded.     He  had  recourse  to  a 
blunt  mention  of  facts. 
VOL.  XLL—  32 


496  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD? 

"  Whiskey  doesn't  get  flat  when  it's  decanted,"  he  said.  "  We  were 
talking  of  champagne." 

"  A.h  !  that's  just  it,"  was  the  bland  rejoinder.  "  One  would  rather 
drink  unpleasantly  fiery  whiskey  than  unpleasantly  flat  champagne." 

Deriug  was  beginning  to  feel  irritated.  "  I  think  I'd  rather  take 
my  chances  with  the  compressed  air,"  he  said,  pushing  out  his  under  lip 
with  a  slightly  obstinate  look. 

"  I  have  known  many  who  preferred  to,"  replied  Mr.  Beanpoddy  , 
"  but  when  a  fragment  of  the  glass  of  those  figurative  bottles  flies  in 
one's  mind's  eye  it  affects  one  exactly  as  the  bit  of  glass  which  flew  into 
the  eye  of  the  little  girl  in  Andersen's  story  of  the  Snow  Queen.  It 
froze  her  heart,  you  remember." 

"  Yes ;  but,  if  you  recall  the  rest  of  the  story,  her  sweetheart  thawed 
it  out." 

Mr.  Beanpoddy  rose,  and  answered  between  the  puffs  with  which  he 
lighted  a  fresh  cigar  from  the  stump  of  the  other, — 

"  Assuredly,  my  dear  fellow ;  but  if  you  will  go  a  little  further  you 
will  remember,  also,  that  that  feat  was  accomplished  before  marriage, 
not  after." 

XV. 

This  conversation  with  Mr.  Beanpoddy  had  on  Dering  an  effect 
irritating  rather  than  depressing.  He  felt  that  his  love  had  been  pat 
ronized,  and  to  a  man,  especially  to  a  young  man,  it  is  infinitely  more 
disagreeable  to  have  his  state  of  mind  patronized  than  to  be  patronized 
himself. 

Then,  too,  for  the  first  time  during  their  friendship,  Mr.  Beanpoddy's 
brilliancy  had  seemed  insufficient,  and  when  he  thought  of  its  radiance 
as  having  been  turned  upon  Barbara  he  felt  as  though  some  one  had 
turned  an  electric  light  upon  a  star.  The  distinguished  Bostonian's 
similes  seemed  to  him  far-fetched,  and  his  cynicism  somewhat  mere 
tricious.  A  remark  here  occurred  to  Dering,  which  he  wondered  if  he 
would  have  strength  of  mind  enough  to  make  to  Mr.  Beanpoddy  when 
they  next  met.  He  fancied  himself  saying,  quietly,  "  At  least,  Mr. 
Beanpoddy,  there  is  one  thing  in  which  you  do  believe, — that  is,  in 
your  unbelief." 

For  one  fact,  however,  he  had  to  thank  that  charming  pessimist, — 
namely,  for  the  indignantly  rebellious  mood  which  he  had  aroused,  and 
which  made  The  Letter  a  comparatively  easy  task.  He  tore  up  the 
stilted  first  two  pages,  which  he  had  twice  copied,  and  wrote  the  follow 
ing  words,  in  a  species  of  panic  lest  they  should  escape  him  before 
recorded : 

" 1  will  not  begin  this  letter.     I  cannot  know  how  you  would 

have  me  begin  it.  I  don't  even  know  whether  you  expect  a  conven 
tional  note  now.  I  do  not  think  you  dream  of  the  frightful  self-control 
I  have  had  to  exercise  over  myself  during  the  last  two  weeks.  I  am 
glad  you  do  not  know.  I  can  only  say,  over  and  over,  I  love  you. — I 
love  you.  Perhaps  you  will  think  it  your  duty  to  throw  this  in  the  fire 
when  you  read  those  words.  But  for  God's  sake  don't  be  afraid  of  my 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  497 

ever  forcing  my  love  on  you.  I  have  told  you,  and  I  mean  it,  that 
everything  shall  be  just  as  you  say :  I  will  write  every  week,  or  I  will 
stop  writing  altogether,  precisely  as  you  may  command.  It  is  horrible 
here  in  this  great  whirl  of  life.  Everything  jars  on  me,  or  else  I  am 
out  of  tune  with  everything.  I  went  to  the  play  last  night,  and  one 
of  the  actresses  reminded  me  of  you  :  her  hair  was  just  that  rich,  brown- 
red  color ;  and  I  could  see  your  very  gesture.  Strange  to  say,  she  had 
some  of  the  tones  in  your  dear  voice,  so  that  when  I  heard  them  my 
heart  seemed  to  jump  into  my  mouth  like  a  hot  coal.  The  foot-lights 
became  a  yellow  blur.  I  was  standing  with  you  in  that  frozen  field ; 
I  held  you  in  my  arms, — in  my  arms  ;  I  felt  your  heart  on  me ;  I  felt 
you, — you, — you.  If  this  hurts  you,  forgive  me.  Remember,  I  do  not 
know  much  about  women,  or  how  to  handle  them,  as  it  were,  and  you 
are  the  first  for  whom  I  have  ever  had  even  a  passing  fancy ;  that  is, 
in  the  high  sense  of  the  word,  of  course.  God  forbid  I  should  pose 
to  you  as  an  Admirable  Crichton  !  Whenever  1  think  of  those  other 
disturbing  fancies  that  have  starred  my  life  with  their  little  poisonous 
blossoms,  I  think  of  you  as  a  dear  gardener,  who  has  cut  out  a  great 
square  of  the  sod  on  which  they  grew,  tossed  it  aside,  and,  in  the  bare, 
torn  space  which  it  left,  has  planted  a  strong,  straight,  vigorous  young 
tree, — my  love  for  you,  dear. 

"  I  am  writing  this  at  the  Club,  sitting  here  by  myself.  Some 
rounders  have  just  rolled  down-stairs,  after  one  of  them  had  stuck  his 
head  in  here  and  muttered  to  the  rest,  '  G — d  !  Man  in  that  room  all 
<done  /'  I  have  had  a  rather  hard  day  of  it,  and  feel  worn  out,  mind 
and  body :  so  forgive  this  horrible  scrawl.  Your  answer  to  this  will 
tell  me  what  to  do.  Yours, 

"J.  D." 

When  Barbara  received  this  letter,  she  was  seated  at  a  small  piano 
which  had  lately  been  placed  in  her  room,  playing  that  richly  sombre  sec 
ond  movement  of  Chopin's  Thirteenth  Nocturne.  Martha  Ellen  placed 
the  envelope  before  her  on  the  music-rack,  and  it  fell  down  between 
her  hands,  making  a  slight  discord.  She  withdrew  her  fingers  from 
the  chords  which  had  been  the  delight  of  her  husband,  and  opened 
Bering's  letter ;  then,  having  half  drawn  the  closely-written  sheets  from 
the  envelope,  thrust  them  back,  held  them  for  a  moment  between  her 
open  palms,  and  went  over  in  front  of  the  wood  fire. 

Her  heart  was  beating  heavily,  and  when  she  again  withdrew  tht 
*tiff  leaves  they  rattled  against  each  other  in  her  eager  grasp.  Once 
more  she  put  them  away  from  her,  then  with  a  quick  movement  turned 
to  the  signature.  A  certain  shade,  delicate  but  distinct,  passed  over 
her  face,  and  she  pressed  her  under  lip  outward  and  then  close  above 
her  upper,  in  a  gesture  expressive  of  conviction  slightly  tinged  with 
disappointment.  A  few  moments  afterwards  she  read  the  whole  letter. 

Its  effect  upon  her  was  contradictory,  and  consisted  of  a  series  of 
varying  shocks  rather  than  of  any  positive  impression.  Its  opening 
went  to  her  heart :  she  felt  her  throat  swell  as  she  read  it.  This  sen 
tence  rather  chilled  her,  however  :  "  I  will  write  every  week,  or  I  will 
stop  writing  altogether,  as  you  may  command." 


498  THE    qUICK  OR    THE  DEAD* 

"  He  doesn't  love  me ;  he  doesn't  love  me,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
fire,  and  with  a  repetition  of  that  unpleasantly  convinced  movement  of 
her  under  lip.  Again  she  read  on,  only  to  receive  a  still  greater  jar  a 
few  sentences  further.  An  actress  had  reminded  him  of.  her ! — a 

painted  thing,  with  a  sing-song  voice  and Ah !  but  here :  the 

voice  also  resembled  hers;  the  hair, — "just  that  rich,  brown- red  color." 
She  put  the  letter  down  on  the  white  fur  rug  beside  her,  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  seat  of  a  chair  near  by.  If  a  woman  has  handsome 
hair,  she  likes  to  think  that  its  tint  has  never  been  precisely  reproduced 
in  the  locks  of  any  other  woman,  especially  in  those  of  a  "  leading 
lady,"  who  probably  wears  an  auburn  wig ! 

What  followed  proved  a  slight  compensation,  however.  The  fact  of 
the  foot-lights  having  become  a  "  yellow  blur"  was  sufficient  evidence 
that  he  had  been  thinking  intensely  of  her,  even  while  noting  these 
points  of  resemblance  in  that  red-haired  person  on  the  stage.  And 
when  he  said  that  he  held  her  in  his  arms, — in  his  arms, — and  felt  her 
heart  on  him,  and  felt  her, — her, — Jier, — the  boyish  iterance  and  vehe 
mence  of  it  thrilled  and  startled  her. 

She  found  herself  smiling,  her  breath  coming  quickly.  She  lifted 
the  paper  nearer  to  her  face. 

Then  came  that  charming,  dainty  bit  of  allegory  in  which  he  likened 
her  to  a  dear  gardener,  and  his  love  for  her  to  a  vigorous  young  tree. 

Again  she  put  down  the  letter  and  hid  her  face.  She  took  it  up 
again,  touched,  softened,  delighted,  only  to  receive  a  third  jolt,  as  it 
were,  against  the  brusque  and  hurried  sentences  with  which  it  closed. 
She  could  see  those  rollicking  dudes  lurching  down-stairs,  and  hear  the 
drunken  tones  of  amaze  in  which  one  of  them  had  exclaimed,  "  G — d ! 
Man  in  that  room  all  alone!" 

Poor  Barbara,  who  was  thoroughly  morbid,  overstrained,  and  over 
excited,  kneeled  up,  took  the  great  chair  into  her  embrace,  and  broke 
into  a  passion  of  sobs.  They  did  not  last  very  long,  and  ended  in  a 
fit  of  laughter,  which  was  rather  mirthless,  although  not  at  all  hysteri 
cal.  This  in  turn  was  replaced  by  a  deep  frown. 

She  got  to  her  feet,  leaving  the  letter  upon  the  rug,  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  large  room,  striking  her  hands  lightly  together,  now  be 
hind  her,  now  in  front  of  her.  She  stopped  mechanic-ally  after  a  while, 
and  took  her  Bible  from  a  low  table,  opening  it  at  random  in  that 
fashion  which  had  become  second  nature  to  her.  The  verse  upon  which 
she  put  her  finger  ran  as  follows :  "  And  I  will  give  them  one  heart 
and  one  way,  that  they  may  fear  me  forever,  for  the  good  of  them,  and 
of  their  children  after  them."  She  turned  hastily  to  another  place : 
"  An  end  is  come  :  the  end  is  come.  It  watcheth  for  thee  :  behold,  it  is 
come."  The  Bible  slipped  from  her  loosened  hold  upon  the  floor,  and 
she  sank  to  her  knees  beside  it,  pressing  her  joined  hands  into  her  lap 
and  looking  at  the  open  book  in  front  of  her. 

"It  watches  for  me,"  she  said,  whisperingly.  "An  end  is  come: 
it  watches  for  me, — it  watches.  He  watches  me ;  he  looks  at  me.  He 
smiles  to  himself.  I  wonder  if  I'm  going  crazy?  I  seem  to  be  watch 
ing  myself  from  some  high  place;  I  seem  to  be  outside  of  myself;  I 
am  as  apart  from  myself  as  my  gown  is.  Oh !  if  I  had  only  one 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD  1  499 

soul  to  8})eak  to,  to  help  me ! — no,  uot  to  help  me, — only  to  be  sorry 
with  me ! '  She  turned,  still  on  her  knees,  and  reached  for  Bering's 
prayer-book,  opening  it  at  this  verse :  "  Mine  eyes  long  sore  for  thy 
word,  saying,  Oh,  when  wilt  thou  comfort  me?" 

"  That  is  it !  that  is  it !"  she  cried,  trembling.  "  '  When  wilt  thou 
com  fort  me?'  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  But  I  must. 
What  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  get  away  from  it, — from  myself, — from  the 

memorias Oh,  the  memories  !  This  place  is  haunted.  I  will  go 

away.  No :  what  am  I  saying  ? — I  came  her«  for  that ;  I  came  here  to 
be  haunted.  Oh,  Val,  help  me  !  help  me  !  My  God,  give  him  back 
to  me  !  give  him  back  to  me  !  give  him  back  to  me  !  I  will  pay  for  it. 
Oh,  it  was  cruel — it  seemed  cruel !  We  tried  to  be  -good  ;  we  tried  to 
help  others,  and  to  be  unselfish,  and  to  think  of  your  will  in  every 
thing I  must  be  crazy.  I  will  go  out ;  I  will  go  out  into  tiie 

air." 

As  she  walked  along  the  red  roads,  which  were  lightly  powdered 
with  snow,  she  found  an  idea  grow  in  her  mind  until  it  had  become  a 
resolve,  and  twenty  minutes  later  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  small 
frame  cottage  which  bore  the  sonorous  title  of  "The  Rectory."  A 
child  opened  it  for  her, — a  pretty  thing  in  a  brown  woollen  frock  and 
white  pinafore,  who  looked  up  at  the  tall,  black-draped  figure  through 
her  light-brown  curls,  which  she  pulled  over  her  face  with  one  hand. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?    Is  Mr.  Trehune  at  home  ?"  said  Barbara. 

The  child  sidled  about,  swinging  the  door  from  side  to  side,  and 
muttered  something  indistinctly. 

"It's  very  cold,"  pursued  Barbara,  with  her  smile.  "Mayn't  I 
come  into  the  hall  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  burst  forth  the  child,  as  though  a  small  fire-cracker  had 
exploded  in  her  mouth. 

Barbara  stepped  inside,  out  of  reach  of  the  bitter  wind,  and  just  as 
she  did  so  Mr.  Trehune  himself  came  to  the  door  of  his  study. 

"  Nell,  you  rogue "  he  began,  stopping  short  at  sight  of  Barbara. 

"  Oh !  may  I  speak  to  you  a  few  moments,  Mr.  Trehune  ?"  she  said, 
moving  forward.  "  I'm  Barbara  Pomfret.  I  am  very  unhappy.  I 
thought  you  might  say  something  to  me." 

Trehune,  who  was  a  young  man,  blushed  frantically,  the  color  show 
ing  even  through  his  light  hair,  which  was  cropped  so  close  as  to  be  of 
a  silver  tone. 

He  was  tall  and  well  put  up,  and  had  a  broad,  squarely-cut  face,  in 
which  the  mouth  was  the  best  feature,  although  his  eyes,  of  a  dark  blue, 
were  fine  in  spite  of  the  lashes  being  silvery  like  his  hair  and  brows. 
He  made  an  awkward  bow  which  suggested  the  presence  of  a  rusty 
hinge  in  the  small  of  his  back,  and  opened  the  door  of  his  study.  On 
the  rug  before  the  fire  were  three  more  children,  each  one  younger  than 
the  little  girl  who  had  opened  the  door.  All  wore  brown  woollen  frocks 
and  white  pinafores,  and,  as  their  father  re-entered,  began  a  clamor  like 
that  of  a  nest  of  birds  about  to  be  fed.  This  ceased  abruptly  as  they 
caught  sight  of  Barbara. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  interrupting  you,"  she  said,  nervously. 

"Ob,  not  the  least, — not  the  least,"  he  assured  her  ;  and  catching  up 


500  THE   QUICK   OR    THE  DEAvl 

the  children,  one  on  his  shoulders,  one  under  each  arm,  with  Nell  fol 
lowing,  he  went  out  by  another  door. 

XVI. 

When  he  came  back  he  found  his  unexpected  visitor  walking  up 
and  down  his  little  room.  She  turned  and  came  instantly  towards  him. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  please,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  which  he  though* 
strange :  "  I  cry  very  seldom,  and  never  before  people ;  but  something 
told  me  you  could  help  me." 

"  I  will  try  my  bast,"  he  said,  seriously,  and  they  sat  down  on 
opposite  sides  of  a  small  table  which  was  covered  with  a  red-and-white 
damask  cloth.  Barbara  stretched  out  her  arms  upon  it,  and  rested  one 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  other,  interlacing  the  fingers. 

"  I  am  so  unhappy  !"  she  said,  again.  "  Perhaps  '  tortured'  is  a 
better  word.  Yes, — I  am  tortured.  May  I  say  things  to  you  just  as 
they  come  in  my  mind  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  may,"  said  Trehune,  gently.  If  he  had  not  known 
who  she  was,  he  would  certainly  have  thought  her  unbalanced,  to  say 
the  least. 

"  Then  tell  me,  do  you  expect  to  meet  your  wife  in  heaven  ?  Do 
you  think  she  will  know  you?  Do  you  think  she  knows  about  you 
now  ?  Do  you — think — she — watches  you  ?" 

Poor  Trehune  had  turned  terribly  pale,  and  sat  staring  at  Barbara 
as  though  she  had  plunged  a  knife  into  him  and  was  amusing  herself 
by  twisting  it  about.  Dering  had  entertained  a  similar  thought  of  her 
on  one  occasion. 

"  Do  you  ?  Do  you  ?"  said  Barbara.  "  Do  you  think  she  loves  you 
now?  Or,  if  she  loves  you,  do  you  think  it  is  just  as  a  spirit  might, 
— just  as  a  guardian  angel  might?  Do  you  think  she  would  care  if — 
if  you  were  to  love  some  one  else  ?" 

He  opened  his  lips  to  reply,  but  no  sound  escaped  them. 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  care,  as  a  living  woman  would  care,  if 
you  were  to  marry  again?  Do  you  think  God  would  let  her  know? 
Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  sin?  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  sin  ? 
Do  you  think  it  would  hurt  her?  Do  you  think  she  would  have  a — 
i  contempt  for  you  ?" 

He  let  his  arms  drop  heavily  on  the  table,  and,  putting  his  head 
down  on  them,  grasped  at  his  short  hair  with  both  hands. 

"  I  have  hurt  you,"  said  Barbara,  stupefiedly.  "  1  came  to  you 
because  I  was  hurt,  and  I  have  only  hurt  you.  I  am  so  sorry  !  Let 
me  go.  I  only  torture  people  :  they  cannot  help  me." 

"  No,  don't  go,"  Trehune  managed  to  gasp.  He  got  up  and  went 
to  the  window,  where  he  remained  for  some  moments.  Barbara  sat 
moveless,  staring  down  at  her  locked  hands,  which  still  rested  on  the 
table  before  her. 

He  returned  presently,  and  resumed  his  seat,  the  only  sign  of  emo 
tion  being  a  slight  twitching  of  his  deeply-curved  upper  lip. 

"  I — I — think  I  can  answer  you  now,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Will  you  ask  me  your  questions  once  more?" 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADf  501 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Barbara.  "  I  was  desperate.  I  did  not  see  how 
selfish  it  all  was.  You  must  forgive  me.  Please  forgive  me.  I  don't 
think  I  am  quite  myself.  I  don't  think  I  would  have  hurt  you  so  if 
I  had  been  quite  myself." 

"  I  understand ;  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Trehune.  "  I  will 
do  anything  in  my  power  for  you.  You  asked  me  if — I  thought — I 
should — meet — my  wife  in  heaven  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Barbara.  She  leaned  towards  him,  ceasing  to  breathe, 
and  with  eyes  that  devoured  his  face. 

His  answer  came  at  once,  concise,  distinct,  assured. 

"  I  do  believe  that,"  he  replied. 

"  You — you  mean  you  think  you  will  recognize  her  ?" 

"Yes."  ' 

"  As  your  wife  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  As  your  ivife  f 

"Yes." 

"  And  she  will  recognize  you,  of  course  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  But  suppose  you  live  to  be  an  old,  old  man?" 

"  That  is  with  God." 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  love  each  other  as  you  did  on  earth  ?" 

"  More." 

"  No,  but  do  you  think  you  will  love  each  other  as  you  did  then  ?M 

"  No, — but  more." 

"  More  ?  More  ?"  she  said,  impatiently.  "  Wasn't  it  enough  ? 
What  could  you  want  more?" 

"  Nothing  !"  he  cried,  with  sudden  passion,  starting  to  his  feet ; 
then  the  dull  look  came  back  upon  his  face,  and  he  dropped  listlessly 
into  his  chair. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  almost  piteously. 

"But  do  you  think  she  watches  you?  Do  you  think  that?"  pui- 
sued  Barbara. 

"  I  think  she  is  near  me  very  often,"  he  answered,  softly. 

Barbara  cast  a  hurried  glance  over  her  shoulder.  "  And  you  think 
you  can  wound  her,  can  pain  her,  by  your  actions  ?" 

"  I  think  it  likely,"  he  said,  with  some  doubt.  "  But  I  don't  know. 
God  may  keep  all  such  bitterness  from  those  he  has  taken  to  himself. 
I  try  never  to  do  what  I  think  would  have  wounded  her." 

"  Ah,  that  is  it !  that  is  it !"  cried  Barbara.  "  Then  you  are  sure— 
you  are  sure  that  you  will  see  her  again  ? — her  hair,  her  eyes,  her  smile, 
herself? — all  again,  just  as  she  was,  just  as  you  remember  her,  just  as 
she  was  when  she  was  your  wife  ?  She  will  have  the  same  ways,  the 
same  gestures  of  head  and  hand?  She  will  speak  in  the  same  voice? 
You  will  touch  her ;  you  will  feel  her ;  she  will  be  your  own  again ; 
you  will  take  her  in  your  arms ;  she  will  love  you ;  you  will  have 
her? "  She  broke  off,  suffocated  with  her  rapid  breathing. 

Poor  Trehune  was  staring  in  front  of  him,  his  face  ghastly  pale,  hia 
forehead  drenched  with  perspiration.  It  was  like  being  dragged  back 
wards  through  a  hell  which  he  had  once  traversed. 


502  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD1 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Barbara,  in  a  heart-broken  voice,  "  I  am  making 
you  suffer  too  much  !  I  will  go.  Indeed  you  had  better  let  me  go." 

"  I  don't  mind  suffering  if  I  can  help  you,"  he  stammered.  "  What 
is  it  that  troubles  you  most  ?  Do  you  doubt  all  these  things  that  you 
have  been  asking  me?" 

Her  answer  stupefied  him. 

"  I — almost — want  to,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  keeping  her  eyes 
on  him.  "  Is  that  a  sin  ?" 

"  You  want  to  ?"  said  Trehune. 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  do.  I  don't  know.  Don't 
you  think  it  is  far,  far  worse  for  a  woman  to  marry  a  second  time  than 
for  a  man  ?" 

"  So  much  depends,"  began  the  poor  young  fellow,  helplessly. 
"  There  is  no  sin  in  either  case " 

"  But  we  could  never  be  sure  that  they  wouldn't  feel  a  contempt 
for  us  :  could  we  ?" 

"  That  doesn't  seem  natural  to  me." 

"What  doesn't?" 

"That  any  one  whom  we  have  loved,  and  who  is  in  heaven,  at 
peace,  at  rest,  could  feel  scorn  for  those  on  earth  who  love  them." 

"  Ah,  yes, — for  those  who  love  them ;  yes.  But  if  one  stops  loving 
them, — if  one  loves  some  one  else  better  :  what  then  ?  And  afterwards 
— suppose — oh,"  she  panted  on,  with  whitening  face, "  suppose  the  other 
died  too, — before  you  did, — and  went  there,  and  they — they  discussed 
you, — talked  you  over  to  each  other :  what  then  ?  Could  you  stand 
that  ?  Could  any  one  stand  that  without  going  mad  ?  Mr.  Trehune, 
do  you  think  I  can  be  going  mad?  I  have  such  terrible  thoughts." 

"I  think  you  are  very  morbid,"  he  said,  seriously.  "And  you 
look  feverish.  Are  you  sure  you  are  well  ?  Was  it  not  imprudent  in 
you  to  come  out  in  this  bitter  wind  ?" 

"  My  head  was  burning  so,"  she  answered,  "  I  felt  as  if  the  cold 
would  help  me.  And  then  I  could  not  seem  to  breathe  in  the  house : 
there  seemed  something  watching,  watching,  all  the  time.  Oh,  I  am 
so  unhappy  ! — I  am  so  unhappy  !" 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  could  help  you,"  he  said.  "  Is  there  no  way  ? 
Can't  you  tell  me  something  of  what  is  troubling  you?" 

"  I  thought  I  could,"  she  whispered,  "  but  I  can't, — I  can't.  I 
will  have  to  go.  I  have  distressed  you  enough.  But  you  don't  think 
they  would  scorn  us,  then  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  do  not." 

"  You  are  sure  ?     You  are  utterly  sure  ?" 

"  Absolutely  sure." 

"  And  you  think  that  perhaps  God  will  not  let  our  actions  pain 
them  ?" 

"  I  think  it  most  likely." 

"  And  you  really  think  that  they  would  not  have  contempt  for  us  f 

Trehune  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  full  at  her  for  the  first  time. 

"  We  might  have  it  for  ourselves,"  he  said,  slowly. 

She  began  to  shiver  from  head  to  foot.  Her  teeth  chattered  so  that 
she  could  scarcely  speak. 


THE    QUICK  OR   THE  DEADf  503 

"  Then  you  think  it  is  wrong  to  marry  again  ?" 

"  It  would  be  wrong  for  me.  I  do  not  say  that  it  would  be  wrong 
for  you." 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  for  you  ?" 

Again  the  passion  in  him  broke  forth  : 

"  Because  I  would  be  a  co\vardly  hound  to  marry  another  woman, 
with  my  heart  in  the  grave  of  one  who  has  been  all  to  me  that  earth 
can  ever  be.  That  is  why  !" 

She  laid  her  face  against  her  outstretched  arm  and  was  silent  for 
some  moments.  Finally  she  said,  in  a  weak  voice, — 

"  You  think  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  ever  love  again  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  replied,  almost  with  violence. 

u  I  was  sure  of  it, — once,"  she  said,  gently. 

There  came  another  silence,  which  she  again  broke : 

"  Are  you  never  lonely  ?  Do  you  never  yearn  for  a  closer  human 
love  and  sympathy  than  you  have  now  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"  Yes,  but  I  glory  in  thinking  that  what  I  am  enduring  is  all  for 
her  sake,  and  that  some  day  we  will  smile  over  it  together." 

"  You  are  very,  very  certain,"  said  Barbara,  wistfully.  "  It  all 
seems  so  far — so  desolately  cold  and  far — to  me.  It  is  like  trying  to 
warm  one's  hands  at  a  star.  And  then  you  have  your  children, — her 
children.  They  must  be  like  her  in  one  way  or  another.  They  speak 
to  you  with  her  voice ;  they  look  at  you  with  her  eyes.  I  never  had 
a  child,  you  know.  Look :  if  you  were  to  meet  another  woman  just 
like  her  in  every  way,  in  every  line  of  form  and  face,  in  every  gesture, 
in  every  trick  of  voice  and  smile, — a  woman  who  was  even  lovelier 
than  she  had  been, — would  you  love  her  ?" 

"  That  is  impossible,"  replied  Trehune. 

"  Never  say  anything  is  impossible,"  said  Barbara,  sharply, — "  you 
who  believe  in  heaven  and  the  meeting  of  wives  and  husbands.  No, 
forgive  me :  I  am  in  such  pain, — I  am  so  unhappy.  Then  you  prefer 
to  lead  a  life  of  absolute  loneliness  and  heart-hunger  to  defrauding  her 
of  even  one  thought?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Trehune. 

"  Then  you  are  a  wonderful  man,"  she  said,  in  a  tired  voice.  "  1 
believe  you  ;  but  it  is  wonderful, — it  is  wonderful." 

She  stood  up,  drawing  further  on  her  long  gloves,  and  taking  her 
muff  from  the  table. 

"  You  have  much  to  forgive  me,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  much  to 
thank  you  for.  I  do  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  If  you  would 
send  the  little  one  called  Nell  over  to  Rosemary  sometimes,  it  would  be 
very  good  of  you.  I  have  a  doll's  house  that  belonged  to  me  as  a  little 
girl,  and  I  understand  children :  I  never  bore  them.  You  know  I 
think  grown  people  bore  children  far  oftener  than  children  bore  them : 
don't  you  ?" 

"  I  will  bring  her  to-morrow,"  answered  Trehune,  "  if  you  will  let 
me  come  to  inquire  how  you  are.  Won't  you  let  me  walk  home  with 
you  ?" 

"  No,  no,  thank  you  very  much.  I  would  rather  be  alone.  Do 
you  think  Nell  would  kiss  me  if  you  brought  her  in  here?  No,  never 


504  TEE   qUICK   OR    TJJf.    DEADt 

mind :  I  look  so  tall  and  big  in  all  this  black,  I  might  frighten  her 
1  will  wait  until  I  have  the  doll's  house  as  a  background.  Good-night 
You  have  been  so  good  to  me.  I  will  not  forget, — ever." 

She  stepped  out  into  the  late  and  bitter  afternoon,  and  he  saw  her 
long  black  veil  borne  out  on  the  high  wind,  like  a  sombre  pennon,  as 
she  walked  across  the  frozen  fields. 

XVII. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  her  interview  with  Trehune  that  Barbara 
wrote  Dering  the  following  letter  : 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  write  to  you  in  coldness.  Do  not  think  that 
you  have  all  the  suffering.  I  tell  you  I  have  sounded  the  blackest 
depths  of  the  waters  of  Marah,  and  my  feet  have  sunk  into  the  mud 
at  their  bottom.  I  do  not  seem  able  to  feel.  I  do  not  suffer  while  I 
write  :  I  only  know  that  I  have  suffered.  I  hope  I  may  always  have 
this  stone  in  my  breast  instead  of  a  heart.  I  am  cowed  utterly.  I 
shrink  from  grief  with  every  fibre  of  soul  and  body.  I  shrink  from 
giving  it  to  any  one  else ;  but  I  must, — I  must !  Oh,  my  dear,  you  will 
see  that  I  am  right,  that  this  is  the  only  way  it  all  could  end.  You 
could  not  respect  me;  I  could  not  respect  myself;  I  would  be  always 
haunted  by  the  feeling  that  you  had  a  secret  contempt  for  me.  And 
you  would  have, — you  would  have.  After  the  first  freshness  of  it  all 
was  over,  you  would  begin  to  think,  '  If  I  die,  I  wonder  who  this 
woman  will  marry?'  You  would  look  at  your  friends  and  think, 
'  Perhaps  he  will  be  her  husband  some  day/  or,  '  Perhaps  that  other 
one.'  We  could  not  look  forward  to  meeting  after  death.  Why,  think 
of  the  mockery  of  it !  the  hideous,  hideous  horror  of  it !  Heaven,  did 
I  say  ?  Could  there  be  a  more  absolute  hell  ?  It  is  my  idea  of  hell. 
My  dear,  my  dear,  it  is  better  that  you  should  try  to  forget  me.  Or 
no  !  I  cannot  say  that ;  I  cannot  honestly  wish  it.  Oh,  God !  yester 
day  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad,  to-day  I  almost  wish  that  I  were. 
Oh,  how  unnecessarily  cruel  all  this  seems  !  I  try  so  hard  to  be  good, 
and  to  see  a  reason  for  it,  but  I  cannot ! — I  cannot !  I  can  only  crouch, 
and  cry,  with  poor  David,  '  All  thy  billows  and  waves  have  gone  over 
me.'  And  yet  it  seems  even  worse  than  that.  Sometimes  it  comes 
over  me  like  an  awful  earth-wave,  crushing,  stifling,  with  no  crisp 
coolness  as  of  water,  which  refreshes  even  while  it  drowns.  The  color 
and  warmth  are  gone  from  life  for  me ;  only  the  beauty  of  form 
remains,  as  in  the  cold  naked  grace  of  a  statue.  You  will  thank  me 
for  this  some  day ;  and  when  that  day  comes — oh,  God  ! — I  will  pray 
for  death  even  more  frantically  than  I  do  now.  If  I  could  only  make 
you  understand  !  If  I  could  only  bring  you  to  some  comprehension 
of  what  I  am  enduring !  Dear,  be  good  to  me, — be  gentle.  You 
must  go  out  of  my  life, — you  rmist!  It  would  bring  you  only  sorrow. 
I  know  how  morbid  all  this  will  seem  to  you ;  I  know  how  you  will 
try  to  convince  me.  But  do  not  try  :  only  help  me ;  only  be  good  to 
me.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  I  suffer !  Dear,  I  pray  God  to  be 
always  with  you, — to  love  you, — to  keep  you ;  and  I  pray  him  to 
teach  you  to  understand  and  feel  grateful  to  BARBARA." 


THE   qUJCK  OR    THE  DEADf  505 

This  letter,  which  had  been  misplaced  by  his  man,  was  handed  to 
Dering  as  he  was  getting  into  a  cab  on  his  way  to  look  in  at  a  bachelor 
dinner  given  by  one  of  his  friends.  He  put  it  in  his  breast  unopened, 
smiling  at  this  piece  of  sentiment,  but  pleased  nevertheless  every  time 
that  the  stiff  paper  made  itself  felt  against  his  flesh. 

As  it  was  three  o'clock  P.M.  when  he  entered  on  the  scene  of  the 
feast,  he  was  not  unprepared  for  the  reception  which  greeted  him,  and 
bore  with  equanimity  the  process  of  being  tripped  up  and  sat  upon  by 
three  hilarious  "dudes,"  who  afterwards  stood  him  upon  a  silver  tray 
and  marched  solemnly  around  the  room,  singing  snatches  from  "  Hai 
rigan  and  Hart's"  last  masterpiece.  Dering,  who  was  jolly  and  ab 
solutely  good-tempered  through  it  all,  had  a  strange  feeling  that  Bar 
bara's  letter  was  being  desecrated,  and  made  his  escape  as  soon  as 
possible,  after  assisting  at  a  bombardment  of  a  picture  of  Washington 
with  jam  tarts.  He  was  a  little  astonished,  on  thinking  it  over  during 
the  drive  back  to  his  club,  that  the  whole  performance  had  bored  him 
rather.  He  had  awakened  suddenly,  like  a  man  from  a  rapturous 
dream  which  had  overtaken  him  on  some  humming  summer  noon 
while  perusing  the  last  masterpiece  in  the  way  of  witty  French  romance, 
— had  awakened  drowsy,  still  thrilling  from  those  vague  yet  blood- 
quicking  experiences,  to  take  up  the  dropped  thread  of  his  story,  and, 
behold !  Atropos  or  some  as  clever  shear-clacker  had  snipped  the  twist ! 
The  dream  had  spoiled  the  reality.  The  bitten  place  in  the  forbidden 
fruit  had  become  brown,  leathery,  unpalatable.  Wasps  were  nibbling 
it,  an  ant  or  two  scuttled  over  its  sleek  skin.  In  his  dream  the  fruit 
was  gold  as  his  love's  hair,  and  sweet  as  honey  through  and  through. 
What  he  took  into  his  mouth  grew  again  as  fair,  as  luscious  in  its 
accustomed  place,  before  he  had  swallowed  the  first  morsel.  There 
were  flowers  and  fruit  on  the  same  branch, — Spring  and  Summer  akiss 
in  the  same  season, — desire  and  fulfilment  ever  smiling  into  each  other's 
untired  eyes,  their  right  hands  clasped,  the  other  two  free  among  the 
leaves  of  that  wonderful  tree  which  grows  in  the  blessed  garden  and 
which  is  called  the  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil.  But 
we  must  drink  down  the  sword-flame  of  the  angel  who  guards  it,  to 
enter  and  eat  of  its  fruit,  so  being  born  again  ;  having  died  of  fire,  and 
from  fire  having  sprung  again. 

By  the  time  that  he  reached  the  club,  Dering  had  persuaded  him 
self  that  the  letter  against  his  heart  contained  a  summons  from  Bar 
bara  to  return  at  once  to  Virginia.  He  then  opened  and  read  it. 
When  he  had  taken  in  the  last  word,  "  Barbara,"  he  went  and  deliber 
ately  lighted  two  or  three  extra  gas-burners,  and  in  this  blaze  of  light 
sat  down  to  think.  An  ugly,  snarling  expression  came  over  his  face, 
a  sort  of  grin  of  savage  distaste  and  pain,  and  he  began  to  catch  his 
breath  nervously  with  a  hoarse  sound  that  was  neither  sobbing  nor 
laughter,  but  akin  to  both.  He  sat  there,  without  moving,  for  some 
two  hours,  then  deliberately  undressed,  got  into  a  cold  bath,  and  went 
to  bed.  In  three  minutes  he  was  sleeping  heavily,  from  sheer  exhaus 
tion,  his  face,  haggard  with  pain,  turned  full  to  the  glare  of  the  lighted 
burners. 

The  next  day  Barbara  received  this  telegram  : 


506  THE   QUICK   OR    THE  DEADt 

"  Letter  received.  Will  answer  it  in  a  few  days.  Hope  you  are 
better.  "J.  D." 

And  it  was  on  the  day  after  that  she  read  in  the  Herald  the  follow 
ing  notice: 

"A  most  serious  and  possibly  fatal  accident  occurred  to-day  on 
Broadway.  A  portion  of  some  scaffolding  fell  upon  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  Mr.  John  Dering,  bruising  and  cutting  him  severely.  He 
was  at  once  taken  to  his  club,  having  no  residence  in  town,  but  is  re 
ported  dangerously  ill,  and  his  mother,  who  is  now  at  Cannes  for  her 
health,  has  been  cabled  for." 

Barbara  rang  at  once  for  Rameses. 

"  I  want  a  man  to  go  immediately  with  this  telegram,"  she  said,  in 
a  clear,  slightly  loud  voice,  signing  the  wire  as  she  spoke.  It  ran  to 
this  effect : 

"  Shall  I  come  to  you  ?     Can  leave  this  afternoon's  train. 

"B." 

After  some  agonizing  hours  of  suspense,  she  received  this  answer . 

"  It  was  my  cousin  who  was  hurt.  Fortunately,  got  your  telegram 
while  I  was  there.  Thanks  so  much.  I  write  at  once. 

"J.  D." 

"  Wait !"  cried  Barbara  to  Rameses,  who  was  leaving  the  room. 
"  This  must  go  too.  Send  some  one  else.  They  must  go  now, — this 
moment, — before  it  gets  too  dark." 

She  snatched  up  a  bit  of  paper,  and  wrote,  with  scrawling  eager 
ness, — 

"  Then  come  to  me  I"  (No  signature.) 

She  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  played  a  wild,  whirling  waltz  of 
Chopin,  stopping  now  and  then  to  laugh  hysterically  with  her  cheek 
against  her  hands  on  the  music-rack.  She  paced  the  room,  singing 
snatches  of  frenzied  Polish  folk-songs.  Her  color  rose,  and  her  heavy 
hair,  loosening  from  its  ridgy  coil,  swung  far  below  her  waist.  She 
smiled  looking  down  as  the  hair-pins  fell  on  the  carpet  in  her  swaying 
walk. 

"  They  say  one's  sweetheart  thinks  of  one  when  one's  hair-pins  fall 
out,"  she  said,  aloud. 

Suddenly  she  paused,  and  stood  still  in  the  centre  of  the  great 
room.  Only  her  glittering  eyes  laughed  from  her  grave  face.  Then 
her  lids  dropjred ;  she  seemed  to  grow  into  marble,  as  Galatea  grew 
from  marble  into  flesh. 

After  a  while  she  rang  the  bell  again  for  Rameses :  "  I  wish  my 
things  taken  out  of  this  room, — everything.  You  can  put  them  in  the 
little  room  over  the  west  wing,  where  I  used  to  stay,  years  ago.  Begin 
now." 


THE    QUICK   OR    THE    DEAD?  507 

When  this  devastation  was  complete,  and  not  even  her  dressing- 
gown  remained  to  give  an  air  of  individuality  to  the  little  brass  bed, 
she  turned  and  sent  that  long,  slow  gaze  about  her  which  she  had 
bestowed  on  the  room  and  its  contents  during  the  evening  of  her  arrival. 

She  shivered,  holding  a  shoulder  in  either  hand  and  pressing  her 
crossed  arms  closely  to  her. 

"  It  looks  like  a  corpse  that — has — been — robbed,"  she  said,  whis- 
peringly,  and  pausing  between  each  word.  "  It  looks  horrible  !  It 
looks  horrible, — horrible  !" 

She  then  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  returned  with  the  same  mass 
of  white  satin  and  tulle  beside  which  she  had  watched  on  that  bitter 
night,  not  long  ago,  closing  and  locking  the  door  after  her.  The  day 
had  been  spring-like,  and  there  had  been  no  fire  lighted  in  the  large  fire 
place,  but  she  seemed  to  be  suddenly  chilly,  for  she  went  and  kneeled 
down  upon  the  hearth,  taking  some  splinters  of  dry  wood  which  lay  in 
a  wicker  basket  near  by,  and  placing  them  as  though  for  kindling.  As 
she  did  this,  she  glanced  restlessly  over  her  shoulder  once  or  twice, 
then  rose,  and,  lifting  the  mass  of  drapery,  laid  it  upon  the  blazing  bits 
of  wood.  It  caught  smoulderingly  in  one  or  two  places,  scorched  and 
shrivelled,  but  died  out  in  those  clustering  sparks  which  children  delight 
to  call  "  people  going  into  church."  Then,  stooping  forward,  she  blew 
upon  it  after  the  manner  of  Rameses ;  but  this  produced  no  effect, 
beyond  making  her  eyes  smart  with  the  smoke-puffs  which  rushed  out 
into  her  face.  She  became  excited,  nervous,  pouring  a  box  of  matches 
out  into  the  dimly-gleaming  folds  and  throwing  a  lighted  match  among 
them.  Still  they  only  smouldered  dully  ;  whereupon  she  began  to  look 
eagerly  around  for  paper  of  any  kind. 

Every  available  scrap  was  thrust  into  the  fireplace,  and  the  fresh 
bits  of  light-wood  which  she  began  to  place  here  and  there  burned 
cheerily.  Still  the  thick  satin  only  curled  and  shrivelled  like  a  thing 
in  pain. 

Barbara  pulled  open  the  doors  of  her  desk,  and  seized  upon  any 
inflammable  thing  which  came  to  hand  ;  and  it  was  at  this  moment  that 
her  eye  fell  upon  a  large,  brass-bound  box  of  oak  which  stood  far  under 
the  low  table.  She  dragged  it  out,  panting  in  her  excitement  and  sus 
pense.  It  was  full  of  letters,  yellowish  in  tone  and  addressed  in  faded 
brown  ink,  and  as  she  looked  at  them  a  strange  expression  came  into 
her  face, — an  expression  of  grief,  of  fright,  of  resolve. 

She  took  a  great  mass  of  them  in  her  arms  and  approached  the  iirt, 
afterwards  .tearing  them  from  their  envelopes  and  crumpling  them  so 
that  they  would  ignite  more  quickly. 

"  All  at  once, — all  at  once  !"  she  kept  whispering  to  herself,  with  the 
insistent  iterance  of  a  person  in  delirium.  She  went  back  and  forth 
to  the  heavy  box  seven  or  eight  times.  There  was  a  great  blaze  now  in 
the  throat  of  the  wide  chimney  ;  the  light  tulle  whizzed  in  flakes  of  fire 
up  its  black  maw,  and  the  satin  began  to  flame  in  places  and  to  rise  and 
faJl  with  the  heat,  as  though  panting  with  a  weird  life. 

"  All  at  once, — all  at  once, — everything, — everything  !"  whispered 
Barbara,  as  though  to  encourage  it.  She  kneeled  and  looked  on  with 
d intended  eyes,  pushing  every  now  and  then  another  letter  among  the 


508  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD! 

writhing  folds.  Lastly  she  took  the  miniature  which  she  always  wore 
from  her  throat,  and  laid  it  face  down  upon  the  mass. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  voice,  moving  backward  to  the  door, 
but  keeping  her  eyes  upon  that  strangely- warmed  hearth-stone. 

"  Good-by, — good-by, — good-by,"  she  kept  repeating,  in  an  expres 
sionless  tone.  She  unlocked  the  door,  withdrew  the  key,  and,  passing 
out,  relocked  it  on  the  other  side. 

XVIII. 

Dering's  reply  came  early  the  next  morning : 

"  Expect  me  to-morrow  via  Charlottes  ville."          (No  signature.) 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Barbara  put  on  her  girlhood's  walking-dress, 
and,  taking  Rameses  with  her,  started  off  for  a  walk, — or,  rather  one 
should  say,  a  run.  She  flew  over  the  frozen  ground,  laughing,  stum 
bling,  catching  her  feet  in  knotted  brambles.  Poor  Martha  Ellen,  whose 
hand  she  grasped,  panted  along  as  best  she  might,  also  laughing  hys 
terically,  the  yellowish  glow  in  the  west  catching  the  exhausted  roll  of 
her  white  eye-globes. 

"  I  feel  like  a  little  girl,  Rameses  !"  said  Barbara. 

"  You  sut'n'y  kin  run  like  one  !"  replied  Rameses. 

"  Yes,  I  can  run ! — I  can  run  !"  gasped  her  mistress,  merrily.  "  Why 
do  you  drag  so  ?  Here's  the  hill  where  we  used  to  go  blackberrying 
when  we  were  children.  We  used  to  wear  pink  tissue-paper  court  trains 
and  paint  our  faces  with  poke-berries  :  don't  you  remember?  Tra-la- 
la  I  tra-la-la  !  Keep  up, — keep  up,  you  monkey  !  You're  dragging 
me  back  all  the  time  !  Ugh  !  it's  cold  !  Do  you  ever  wish  you  were 
a  little  girl  again,  Ramie  ?" 

Poor  Rameses  was  past  replying. 

A  rich  purple-blue  dusk  had  sunk  down  over  the  land,  and  the  gleam 
of  the  frozen  ice-pond  in  a  far  field  shone  desolately  forth  from  tangled 
patches  of  orange-colored  wild  grass.  They  could  hardly  see  the  tone 
of  the  dark-red  soil  beneath  their  feet. 

"  Faster !  faster,  you  goblin  !"  urged  Barbara ;  but  Rameses,  des 
perate  with  fatigue,  snatched  away  her  hand,  and  her  mistress  dashed 
on  without  her. 

She  came  in  about  half  an  hour  later,  flushed,  brilliant,  to  find  the 
small  room  over  the  west  wing  glittering  with  wax  candles,  and  the 
curtains,  of  old  green  silk  splashed  with  large  cabbage-roses,  drawn 
over  the  narrow  windows.  Throwing  her  dog-whip  and  gloves  on  the 
bed,  she  went  whistling  out  into  the  narrow  corridor  that  led  to  this 
room,  and,  with  a  candle  on  the  floor,  searched  in  some  closets  which 
lined  the  walls  on  either  side.  She  went  back  and  forth,  carrying  sev 
eral  armfuls  of  different  fabrics  to  her  room  and  tossing  them  on  chairs 
and  sofa. 

This  room  was  delightful, — small,  square,  with  a  low  ceiling  orna 
mented  in  white  plaster-work,  its  walls  wainscoted  in  oak  within  three 
feet  of  the  ceiling,  wherefrom  hung  old  stone  engravings,  washily  tinted, 


THE    QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt  509 

of  girls  and  rabbits,  girls  arid  doves,  girls  and  kittens  in  baskets,  girls 
and  young  partridges,  all  dressed  in  scant  white  gowns,  their  unique 
figures  apparently  held  together  with  difficulty  by  tight  bands  of  bright- 
blue  ribbon.  A  low  toilet-table  of  French  gilt,  with  a  large  mirror 
framed  in  gilt  grapes  and  Cupids,  stood  between  the  two  windows,  and 
the  six  candles  in  the  sconces  on  either  side  sent  clear  cross-lights  upon 
the  face  and  form  of  Barbara,  as  she  stood  before  it,  twisting  up  the  long 
masses  of  her  hair  into  a  half-curled  knot  at  the  back  of  her  fine  head. 

In  twenty  minutes  Dering  would  arrive.  Her  windows  overlooked 
the  gravelled  carriage-drive,  and  the  first  sound  of  wheels  would  reach 
her  ears.  She  selected  from  the  many  dresses  on  the  sofa  one  of  rich, 
peach-bloom-colored  Indian  silk,  a  sort  of  tea-gown,  half  loose,  half 
tight,  through  whose  folds  the  lines  of  her  full  figure  appeared  and  dis 
appeared  with  every  movement.  From  her  fingers  she  slipped  every 
ring,  holding  up  her  long  hands  and  shaking  them  about  to  make  them 
whiter.  The  wide  sleeves  fell  back,  showing  her  arms,  which  were 
smooth  as  those  of  a  child  warm  with  sleep.  She  laughed  and  kissed 
them,  first  one,  then  the  other,  still  shaking  her  hands  lightly  above 
her  head. 

Then  came  a  sound  of  wheels.  In  a  moment  she  was  out  in  tht 
darkness  of  the  narrow  corridor.  She  felt  as  though  the  floor  rose  be 
neath  her  feet  and  pressed  her  against  the  slanting  roof.  She  could 
scarcely  breathe,  and  the  air  seemed  stifling.  In  a  sort  of  panic  she 
reached  the  great  hall,  and  shrunk  down  shivering  in  a  corner  of  the 
stairway,  where  she  could  hear  Dering's  voice  in  the  hall,  the  greetings 
and  exclamations  of  Miss  Fridiswig,  and  the  whimpering  of  the  grey 
hounds.  She  waited  there  until  she  heard  him  close  the  door  of  his 
room,  when  she  rose  and  half-way  descended  the  stairs,  rushing  back 
again  to  her  coigne  of  vantage  as  she  heard  some  one  approaching. 
The  two  greyhounds  found  her  out,  and  crouched  down  beside  her, 
licking  at  her  handsome  bare  throat  and  ringless  hands,  while  the  sleet 
rattled  intermittently  against  the  small  panes  in  a  narrow  window  just 
over  her  head,  and  she  could  hear  Dering  moving  about  in  his  room, 
which  was  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Presently  she  stole  down  and 
into  a  long  apartment  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall.  It  was  hung 
in  yellow  silk,  and  its  polished  oak  floor  was  strewn  with  rugs  in  dull 
blues  and  orange  tones  on  a  white  ground.  There  were  many  low 
lounging-chairs,  and  divans  heaped  with  differently-colored  cushions, 
and  the  light  of  the  wood  fire  licked  the  glaze  on  much  very  beautiful 
china.  She  threw  herself  into  a  drift  of  crimson  pillows,  and  let  her 
hands  fall  palm  to  palm  between  her  knees,  brooding  upon  the  broken 
fire,  whose  lilac  flames  palpitated  over  a  bed  of  gold-veined  coals. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  door  opened  to  admit  Dering,  who 
entered,  closing  it  carefully  behind  him,  and  approached  the  fire  with 
palms  outstretched. 

"  You  must  be  nearly  frozen,"  said  Barbara,  with  originality. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  admitted  Dering,  also  with  a  strong  flavor  of  the 
same  element. 

"  Have  you  had  some  tea  ?  I  ordered  some  to  be  arranged  for  you 
in  the  dining-room." 


510  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD* 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  have  had  several  cups.  Miss  Fridiswig  kindly 
poured  them  out  for  me." 

"  Is  it  quite  warm  enough  in  here  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  quite,  thanks.  It's  wonderfu]  how  you  keep  this  old  house 
so  comfortable." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  But  it  is  quite  comfortable,  I  think.  One  can't 
say  that  of  many  Virginia  country  houses.  Do  sit  down.  You  look 
as  though  you  were  just  going  away." 

"  I'm  not,  however." 

"Then  sit  down.  You  make  me  nervous.  It  must  be  dreadfully 
stormy  in  New  York,  isn't  it?" 

"  Very.     You  know  it's  snowing  now  outside." 

"  Sleeting,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Both,  I  think." 

Suddenly  Dering  turned,  leaning  over  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and 
resting  both  hands  on  the  arm  of  hers.  She  could  see  his  lips  quiver 
ing,  and  the  dilation  of  fiery  eyes  and  nostrils. 

"  Barbara,  you  sent  for  me,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  answered,  not  shrinking,  with  her  eyes  full  on 
his. 

"What  for?"  he  went  on. 

"  For — this  !"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  more  stirring  than  any  tone 
of  voice,  and,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  in  front  of  him,  held  out 
to  him  her  bare  and  beautiful  arms. 

"  Hush  !  Wait,"  said  Dering :  "  let  me  think.  Don't  move : 
let  me  think."  He  drew  away  from  her,  breathing  brokenly,  with  an 
expression  of  keen  pain  on  his  face,  and  they  crouched  thus  for  some 
moments,  gazing  at  each  other  like  two  tigers  about  to  spring. 

All  at  once  he  stooped  forward,  and,  standing  erect,  lifted  her  from 
her  feet  upon  his  breast. 

"  You  love  me  ? — you  love  me,  then,  my  tigress  ?" 

"I  love  you." 

"  You  are  sure  of  yourself?     You  are  sure  of  yourself?" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  No,  you  are  not  sure ;  you  cannot  be.  After  that  letter, — good 
God  ! — that  damnable  letter ! — how  can  /  be  sure,  after  that  letter  ?" 

"  But  I  am  sure  ;  J  am  sure." 

"  You  are  changed,  you  mean.  You  may  change  again.  How  can 

I  tell  ?  No  !  I  see  it  as  clearly Here !  listen,  you  wild  thing  ! 

— take  your  hand  from  my  mouth.  Ah,  you  tigress ! — you  tigress ! 
No.  Here — stop ! — listen  ! — listen.  You  read  that  thing  in  the 
Herald  about  Jack  Dering,  and  you  thought  at  first  that  it  was 

me,  and  your  pity  got  the  better  of No !  stop,  I  say  !  You've 

got  to  listen.  There,  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  you,  but  you  must  listen. 
How  beautiful  you  are ! — what  hair  !  what  eyes  !  what  lips !  But  I 
will  speak, — do  you  hear  ?  I  am  stronger  than  you ;  I  am  your 
master  :  I  will  speak.  It  was  pity " 

"  Jock  !  kiss  me !" 

"  It  was  pity.   You  were  sorry  for  that  cruel  letter.   You  were " 

"Jock!  kiss  me!" 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD?  51 1 

"  You  thought  you  would  atone.  Oh,  I  know  some  few  things 
about  women.  There,  you  must  keep  still  until  I  finish.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  I  loathe  your  pity, — I  abominate  it !  Is  that  plain 
enough  ?  I  would  rather " 

"  Jock  !  kiss  me  !" 

"  I  would  rather  go  away  this  moment,  and  never  see  you  again  in 
this  world  or  the  next,  than  compromise  on  pity  !  I  tell  you  I " 

"  Kiss  me !" 

"  I  would  rather " 

"  Kiss  me !" 

"  I  would  rather  see  you  belong  to  some  one  else  than " 

"  Kiss  me !    Kiss  me !" 

"  Than  take  one  iota. less  love  than  I  give.     I }> 

"  Ah,  kiss  me,  Jock  !" 

"  I  will  have  my  love  returned  in  full, — in  full, — do  you  under 
stand  ?  I  am  as  proud  as  the  devil,  and  unless  you " 

"  I  love  you  more  than  anything  I  have  ever  dreamed  of, — more 
than  anything  in  earth  or  heaven, — more  than  anything  alive  or  dead, 
— or  dead  !  You  understand  ?  Now  kiss  me  !" 

He  released  her  pliant  waist  and  lifted  her  face  to  him  with  both 
hands. 

XIX. 

After  this  interview  followed  a  week  of  delight  such  as  is  sometimes 
granted  to  two  mortals,  one  of  whom  obtains  a  love  long  fought  for,  one 
of  whom  yields  to  a  love  long  fought  against.  Into  the  winter  of  their 
discontent  had  stolen  a  mood  as  warmly  exquisite  as  were  the  spring 
like  days  which  interrupted  the  actual  winter  weather,  and  which  invei 
gled  the  lilac-buds  into  swelling  forth  prematurely,  and  filled  the  tops  of 
the  horse-chestnuts  and  peach-trees  with  fragile,  rose-hued  blossoms. 

Barbara  ceased  altogether  from  that  morbid  habit  of  analysis  which 
is  the  curse  of  our  century,  and  gave  herself  without  questioning  into 
the  outstretched  arms  of  her  sudden  happiness.  These  nowadays  ana 
lysts  remiud  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  were  a  man  who  hears  a  bird 
sing  on  the  branch  of  a  fruit-tree  in  flower  to  go  out  and  break  away 
the  branch,  hoping  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  singer.  The  bird  flies, 
and  the  blossoms  are  never  fruit.  The  man  has  the  fact,  the  dead, 
fruitless  branch,  in  his  hand,  but  that  which  made  its  beauty,  the  blos 
soms  scattered,  and  the  sweet-voiced,  wing&l  thing,  are  beyond  the  reach 
of  his  scalpel. 

Dering,  who  had  wooed  one  woman,  found  that  he  had  won  twenty. 
To-day  she  was  a  girl  in  her  teens  hanging  lier  head  beneath  the  first 
kisses  of  her  first  lover,  to-morrow  she  was  a  laughing  witch  who 
wanted  neither  kisses  nor  lover,  only  a  sympathetic  comrade  who  would 
appreciate  her  vagaries,  which  were  sometimes  most  unexpected,  bu< 
always  charming.  One  morning  she  would  come  to  him  grave-eyed, 
subdued,  to  speak  with  a  certain  awe  of  their  future  together,  the  same 
afternoon  she  would  forbid  any  allusion  save  to  the  present,  and  in  the 
evening  tolerate  no  mention  of  either,  demanding  Othello-like  anecdotes 
over  which  she  would  become  breathless  and  excited,  kneeling  beside 
VOL.  XLI.— 33 


512  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

him  and  looking  up  with  eyes  gloriously  dark.  Her  variety  of  beauty 
bewildered  him.  Her  very  coloring,  and  the  shade  of  her  hair,  ap 
peared  to  change  with  each  mood  and  costume,  so  that  one  day  he 
seemed  affianced  to  an  Eastern  houri  languid  in  rich  embroideries 
among  many  cushions,  and  the  next  followed  a  modern  Atalanta 
through  the  brown  vistas  of  her  familiar  woods,  lie  never  kne\? 
whether  his  caresses  would  be  repulsed  or  accepted, — whether  his  re 
marks  would  be  received  with  tears  or  with  laughter, — whether  she 
would  comprehend  divinely  his  half-spoken  thoughts  or  wilfully  mis 
construe  his  most  carefully  worded  expressions. 

Barbara  "was  in  a  state  of  the  most  feverish  exhilaration.  She 
scarcely  slept.  When  she  was  alone  she  sang  or  whistled  like  a  boy, 
to  drown  the  voices  which  clamored  within  her.  When  she  was  par 
ticularly  sleepless,  she  read  books  which  Dering  had  marked,  or  wrote 
long  notes  to  him,  which  Ilameses  placed  on  his  pillow  before  he  awoke, 
and  which  he  answered  before  dressing. 

The  reaction  came,  however,  although  she  fought  doggedly  against 
it,  and  would  not  admit  its  presence  even  when  it  gripped  hei  by  the 
heart-strings.  Naturally  enough,  it  was  occasioned  by  a  sudden  recogni 
zance  of  the  likeness  between  Dering  and  her  husband.  As  the  just- 
accepted  lover  developed  into  the  lover  at  his  ease,  gestures,  expressions, 
and  habits  thrust  upon  her  with  pitiless  exactitude  the  memory  of  her 
first  wooing.  All  this  impressed  her  with  that  novelty  which  is  some 
times  attendant  upon  an  old  fact  suddenly  mentioned  to  another  person. 
He  had  for  her  the  identical  love- words  to  which  her  virginal  heart  had 
thrilled  in  the  days  gone;  his  carcases  were  the  same  ;  his  half-laughing, 
half-serious  allusions  to  himself  as  a  married  man, — even  his  kisses, 
and  his  tempestuous  way  of  lifting  her  from  her  feet  upon  his  breast. 
And  yet  he  himself — he  the  man,  the  individual — was  absolutely 
different, — more  masterful,  more  imperious,  more  intolerant  of  many 
things.  She  felt  like  the  assistant  in  a  murder,  whose  accomplice  ad 
dressed  her  always,  with  ghastly  mockery,  in  the  tones  and  manner 
of  their  victim.  She  could  not  escape ;  there  was  no  possible  way  of 
egress  from  this  labyrinth  into  which  she  had  wandered  with  open  eyes, 
for  the  clue  had  dropped  from  her  hands  when  she  raised  them  to  clasp 
the  throat  of  her  new  lover. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  romping  with  the  greyhounds  upon  the 
lawn,  waiting  for  her  to  appear,  she  rushed  out  towards  him,  her  hair 
half  loose  in  the  soft  wind,  which  smelled  of  young  leaves  and  the 
wool  of  some  sheep  that  were  cropping  the  withered  grass  under  the 
acacias.  Her  face  was  pulsing  with  color,  her  eyes  bright  and  eager  as 
those  of  a  dog  that  foresees  a  walk. 

"  I  have  such  an  idea  !"  she  cried,  taking  his  arm  into  her  ungloved 
hands  and  pressing  against  his  side.  "  We  have  never  been  on  a  straw- 
stack  together.  Let  us  go.  Let  us  run  all  the  way.  There  is  such 
a  beauty  in  the  mill-field  !  And  it  has  been  dry  and  warm  so  long,  it 
will  be  so  nice  to  slide  upon.  It  is  so  pretty  there ;  and  we  can  hear 
the  mill-wheel :  Aunt  Caroline  is  having  some  flour  ground  for  brown- 
bread  to-day." 

They  ran,  laughipg  and  tea-sing  one  another  like  two  children,  along 


THE   qUICK  OR    THE  DEAD1  513 

the  broad  red  road  that  curved  beyond  the  back  of  the  house,  overhung 
by  great  catalpa  and  black-walnut  trees,  and  hemmed  in  by  an  unusu 
ally  eccentric  snake  fence.  The  hills  showed  a  faint  green  bloom  here 
and  there  along  their  sides,  and  the  young  apple-trees  in  the  new  or 
chard  held  out  now  and  then  a  silvery  small  leaf.  They  reached  the 
straw-stack,  and  began  to  scramble  up,  arriving  at  the  top  panting  and 
covered  with  dust  and  bits  of  straw.  She  sank  into  the  arms  which  he 
held  out  for  her,  and,  pressing  down  the  collar  of  his  silk  shirt,  rested 
her  wordless  lips  in  the  hollow  at  the  base  of  his  strong  throat. 

"  I  love  you, — I  love  you,"  said  each,  clinging  to  the  other;  and 
then  she  settled  contentedly  down,  with  her  head  against  his  knees, 
and  let  one  of  the  greyhound  pups  curl  up  between  her  languid,  out 
stretched  arms. 

"  Suppose  Mr.  Beanpoddy  could  see  you  now  !"  she  said,  after  some 
moments  of  this  delicious  inertia,  "  or  some  of  your  dude  friends  !  I 
would  like  to  see  the  puppies  attack  their  spatts.  Do  you  suppose  auy- 
tliing  ever  srnelled  quite  as  nice  as  a  straw-stack?" 

"  Yes, — your  hair  does.     AVrhat  do  you  put  on  it?" 

"  Soap  and  water." 

"  Oh,  Barbara !  do  you  want  me  to  believe  all  this  is  only  due  to 
Pears  and  your  cistern  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed  I  don't  perfume  my  hair,  Jock.  I  think  it's  so 
"ulgar.  I  hope  it  doesn't  smell  like  that !" 

"Like  what?" 

"  As  though  it  were  all  horrid  and  Lubin's-Extracty." 

"  That  is  as  original  a  compound  verb  as  the  one  Punch's  little  gin 
made  use  of  a  year  ago." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know, — the  one  about  Liebig's-Extract-of-Beefing  it. 
Jock,  I  think  it  would  be  so  charming  to  slide  down  here  together." 

"Do  you?     Well " 

They  l>egan  their  descent,  first  sedately,  then  in  a  whirling  rusn 
which  landed  them  under  an  avalanche  of  loose  straw. 

"  Isn't — it — fun  !"  she  gasped,  as  they  climbed  up  again. 

"  Your  hair's  down.  Lord  !  how  long  it  is  !  I  could  tie  you  to 
me  with  it.  Look  here." 

He  divided  the  heavy  masses  and  drew  them  about  his  throat,  then 
released  her,  horrified  at  the  sudden  whiteness  of  her  face. 

"  Barbara  !  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing, — I, — nothing, — nothing  at  all." 

"  That's  absolute  nonsense,  my  dear.     Yrou  know  you  really  can't 

put  me  off  in  that  absurd  way.     Barbara "     He  paused,  a  sudden 

look  of  intelligence  creeping  over  his  face.  "See  here,  Barbara:  I've 
thought  something  once  or  twice.  Are  you  trying  to  fancy  that  I'm 
Valentine  Pomfret?" 

At  this  she  turned  on  him  a  look  so  full  of  reproach,  anguish,  and 
entreaty  that  he  was  frozen  with  a  sense  of  his  brutality. 

"  Barbara,  forgive  me  !"  he  said,  reaching  out  for  her;  but  she  held 
him  away,  with  her  open  hand. 

"  It  was  so  cruel !"  she  managed  to  whisper  at  last,  with  chattering 
teeth. 


514  THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

"  My  God !  I  know  it  was  !     Can  you  forgive  me  ?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  began  pressing  it  with  short  convulsive 
movements  upon  the  other. 

"  Can't  you  forgive  me  ?"  said  poor  Dering. 

Still  she  sat  wordless,  her  handsome  throat  swelling  with  some 
repressed  feeling. 

"  I — I — have  tried  to  think  that,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 

Der  ing's  face  changed. 

"  You  have  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  but — I — could  not.  I  found — I "  She  stopped  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  went  on,  looking  steadily  at  him,  "  I  found  I  did  not 
want  to." 

"  Barbara !" 

"  I  did  not  want  to  think  of  you  as  any  one  else.  I  did  not  want 
any  one  else.  I  wanted  you."  She  paused  again,  adding,  in  a  whisper, 
"  I  want  you." 

lie  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  felt  the  great  throbs  of  his  heart 
against  her  face. 

"  I  want  you  ! — I  want  you  !"  she  went  on,  incoherently, — "  forever, 
— forever, — forever  !  Only  you  !  Oh,  Jock,  if  you — if  you  die, 
you  know  I  will  be  true  to  you?  Hush!  don't  answer.  How  can 
you  know  ?  My  God  !  how  can  you  know  ?" 

"  I  do  know,"  said  Dering,  stoutly,  braced  by  the  belief  which 
sustains  every  lover, — the  belief  that  the  woman  who  loves  him  loves 
him  more,  and  better,  and  differently  from  the  way  in  which  she  has 
ever  loved  or  ever  will  love  any  man  again. 

"  I  do  know,  my  darling,"  he  repeated  ;  but  she  sobbed  on,  clinging 
to  him  :  "  No,  no  !  you  cannot !  you  cannot !  And  I — I  can  never 
prove  it  to  you  !" 

"  I  would  not  have  a  proof.  I  do  not  want  one.  I  would  not 
accept  it  if  you  could  give  it  to  me.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  under 
stand  how  thoroughly  I  comprehend  all  your  struggles  and  feelings. 
But  you  must  not  think  that  you  only  suffer." 

"  It  is  because  I  grieve  you  that  I  suffer,"  she  replied,  still  hiding 
her  face.  "  All  the  little  pleasure  that  I  have  given  you  cannot  pay  for 
the  pain.  You  think  I  don't  know  that ;  but,  oh,  I  do  ! — I  do  !" 

"  You  only  give  me  pain  when  you  speak  in  this  way,"  said  Dering, 
caressing  her  bowed  head.  "  You  only  give  me  pain  when  you  think 
that  you  are  anything  but  a  joy,  a  blessing  to  me, — the  very  light  of 
my  life.  I  not  only  love  you,  I  actually  adore  you  I  Why,  I  swore 
once  that,  no  matter  what  a  woman  was  to  me,  I  would  never  kiss  her 
feet ;  and  look  here  !  and  here  !"  And,  before  she  could  prevent  him, 
he  had  stooped  and  pressed  his  lips,  now  on  one  foot,  now  on  the  other ; 
then,  kneeling  up,  he  kissed  her  dress,  her  knees,  her  waist,  her  arms, 
while  she  bent  over  him,  panting,  intoxicated,  half  reassured. 

It  was  in  some  such  way  that  nearly  all  their  misunderstandings 
ended. 

XX. 

It  was  quite  late  on  an  afternoon  of  the  next  week  that  a  sudden 
heavy  shower  overtook  them  while  out  riding.  As  they  were  near  the 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD?  51 5 

pretty,  Gothic  church  of  the  neighborhood,  they  fastened  their  horses 
and  took  shelter  within  its  doors,  which  they  found  open.  After  about 
twenty  minutes  of  ceaseless  downpour,  Dering  insisted  on  remounting 
his  horse  and  riding  back  to  Rosemary  for  a  trap  of  some  kind,  and  thus 
Barbara  was  left  to  a  possible  hour  of  rather  dreary  waiting.  She  became 
tired  of  her  post  on  an  old  oak  settle  near  the  open  doors,  and  wandered 
up  into  the  organ-loft.  It  was  gray  with  cobwebs  and  littered  with 
melancholy  bits  of  bread  soaked  in  strychnine,  which  had  been  left  there 
for  the  delectation  of  the  rats.  She  found  the  organ  unlocked,  and  thought 
she  would  see  if  she  could  get  the  sexton  to  pump  for  her,  so  went  cau 
tiously  down  the  crooked  and  dusty  stairway,  wondering  at  the  sudden 
darkness  which  enveloped  it,  to  find  the  church  doors  closed.  Her  heart 
leaped  violently,  then  settled  into  heavy  beating,  and,  looking  back  into 
the  darkening  church,  she  felt  with  both  hands  for  the  fastening.  It 
was  secure,  and  from  the  outside.  Barbara,  who  had  from  her  childhood 
entertained  an  especial  horror  of  being  locked  into  even  a  bright  and 
daylighted  room,  felt  a  cold  horror,  as  strong  as  it  was  unreasoning,  creep 
up  within  her.  She  ran  hurriedly  out  into  the  aisle  of  the  church,  which 
was  not  so  gloomy  as  that  little  passage  near  the  door,  and  stood  still, 
with  her  hand  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  pews,  trying  to  think  what  she 
had  best  do.  It  was  not  long  before  she  remembered  that  through  the 
vestry-room  she  might  make  her  escape,  and,  hurrying  forward,  found 
the  entrance  to  it  also  locked. 

The  rain  was  now  falling  more  heavily  than  ever,  and  sheets  of  bluish 
lightning  threw  into  pale  relief  the  tall  windows,  with  their  lead-framed 
panes  of  glass,  showed  her  the  large  black  letters  on  the  three  white 
marble  tablets  over  the  altar,  but  failed  to  penetrate  the  arches  of  the 
vaulted  roof,  from  which  the  gloorn  seemed  to  hang  like  dust-clogged 
cobwebs. 

"  I  will  be  quite  quiet,  I  will  be  quite  collected,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  will  go  in  my  pew  and  sit  down.  Perhaps  I  will  fall  asleep,  and 
then  Jock  will  come  and  laugh  at  me,  and  we  will  have  such  a  gay, 
cosey  drive  home  together."  There  were  other  thoughts  which  came 
huddling  about  her,  whimpering  for  admittance,  and  which,  when  re 
fused,  threatened  with  ugly  grins  and  cries  of  rage.  "I  will  be  quite 
quiet, — quite  calm,"  she  repeated,  this  time  aloud.  "  I  will  take  this 
prayer-book  in  my  hands  and  kneel  down, — and  then  I  will  count  a 
hundred  ;  and  by  that  time  Jock  will  come."  She  kneeled  down,  rest 
ing  her  forehead  on  the  large,  old-fashioned  prayer-book,  and  listening 
to  the  gushing  of  the  rain  from  the  sloping  roof. 

The  lightning  increased,  grew  sharper  in  its  darts,  and  was  now 
followed  by  low  thunder.  All  at  once  a  noise  attracted  her, — a  rat 
tling  at  the  church  doors.  Starting  up,  she  ran  down  the  long  aisle, 
dragging  over  a  foot-bench  in  her  haste,  but  undeterred  by  its  echoing 
crash. 

"  It's  me — it's  Barbara,  Jock.     Open,  quick  !" 

A  renewed  rattling  was  her  only  answer,  followed  by  a  long,  plain 
tive  whine  from  the  dog  outside  that  was  scratching  for  admittance. 
This  unexpected  reply  so  startled  her  that  she  could  not  repress  a 
broken  cry,  and  rushed  back  again  into  the  Ixxly  of  the  church,  invol- 


516  THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEADt 

untarily  lifting  her  hands  to  her  ears  as  she  ran.  A  beseeching  and 
heart-broken  howl  from  the  lonely  dog  followed  her,  its  quavering  Call 
absorbed  in  a  ponderous  roll  of  thunder  which  jarred  along  under  her 
feet.  Then  came  a  heavier  rush  of  rain,  and  the  sound  of  a  wind 
rousing  itself  along  the  sodden  leaf-carpet  outside.  Only  the  general 
outlines  of  the  reading-desks  and  the  great  tablets  were  now  to  be  dis 
cerned,  save  in  the  flickers  of  lightning  which  seemed  to  soak  with 
an  unnatural  gleam  all  objects  upon  which  they  fell.  Again  the  dog 
howled,  and  again  the  thunder  drowned  its  long  note. 

"  He  is  nearly  here  now,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  again  seated  in 
her  own  pew.  "He  is  just  driving  through  Machnnk  Creek.  Now  he 
is  coming  up  the  long  hill.  Now  lie  has  turned  into  the  lane.  Now  he 
is  coming  into  the  church-yard.  Now " 

She  was  here  startled  by  the  baffled  dog,  who  leaped  up  at  the  win 
dow  near  which  she  was  sitting,  hung  by  its  paws  on  the  ledge  for  a 
moment,  and  then  dropped  winning  back  .upon  the  ground  without. 
The  sight  of  that  dark  head  and  those  clutching  paws  horrified  her 
inexpressibly,  and  she  rushed  and  crouched  down  on  the  altar  steps, 
trembling  in  every  fibre.  The  next  lightning-flare  that  swept  the 
church  fixed  the  great  letters  on  the  white  tablets  upon  her  inner  lids, 
and  thrust  upon  her  a  memory  against  which  she  had  been  fighting 
ever  since  finding  herself  locked  in,  and  which  coursed  backward 
through  her  veins  as  though  ice-water  had  been  injected  into  them. 

The  last  time  that  she  had  followed  the  outlines  of  those  sombre 
characters,  she  had  been  standing  l>efore  this  altar  as  a  bride.  She 
could  see  the  whole  scene  as  distinctly  as  though  she  were  at  the  very 
moment  playing  her  part  in  it, — could  see  the  kindly,  earnest  face  of 
the  minister  who  had  married  them,  even  to  a  wart  upon  one  of  his 
nostrils,  and  a  curious  habit  he  had  of  drawing  his  large  chin  into  folds, 
— could  see  her  father's  face,  with  its  anxious  expression  and  softly- 
curling  gray  hair,  through  which  the  morning  light  shone  whitely,  and 
which  contrasted  so  well  with  his  fresh  and  wind-reddened  skin, — saw 
her  husband's  hand  as  it  held  her  own  (she  had  not  looked  at  his  face 
during  the  ceremony), — saw  the  little  rip  in  one  of  her  lace  flounces, 
where  it  had  caught  in  the  carriage  door, — heard  the  voice  of  the  man 
who  had  been  her  husband, — a  voice  rich  and  earnest  and  unusual, — 
"  I  Valentine  take  thee  Barbara  to  my  wedded  wife,  to  have  and  to 
hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer, 
in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish  till  death  us  do  part." 
Ah  !  she  heard  more.  She  felt  him  lean  to  her  when  they  had  stepped 
into  the  carriage  and  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  all  others, — felt 
the  very  breath  of  his  words  against  her  cheek  : 

"  Death  will  not  part  us,  Barbara.  We  will  laugh  in  his  face,  my 
Barbara, — my  wife, — my  Barbara, — my  brave  girl.  What  is  Death  to 
Love?  It  will  l>e  only  a  little,  lonely  waiting  for  whichever  of  us 
goes  first.  lie  cannot  part  us,  sweetheart;  he  cannot  part  us." 

She  thought  she  heard  his  voice  close  at  her  ear : 

"  Death  cannot  part  us,  Barbara." 

"Now  he  is  coming  through  the  double  gate,"  she  said,  aloud. 
"  Now  he's  driving  very  fast  over  that  good  bit  of  road.  Now  he's 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD 9  ^'A 

turning  into  the  Greysons'  field.  Now  he  is  coming  up  the  church 
hill.  Now  he  is  turning  in  at  the  gate." 

The  dog  under  the  window  howled  again,  and  again  the  voice  at 
her  ear  seemed  to  say,  as  though  to  cheer  her, — 

"  Death  cannot  part  us,  Barbara." 

She  kneeled  up,  grasping  the  altar  rail  with  both  hands,  and  making 
a  tremendous  effort  at  self-control.  "  Dear  God,  please  take  care  of 
me,  and  bless  me,  and  be  good  to  me,"  she  said,  in  the  childish  voice 
which  came  to  her  whenever  she  was  suffering.  "  I  have  not  done 
any  one  any  harm.  I  have  tried  to  be  good.  Please  ask  Val  to  for 
give  me.  lie  does  not  care  for  me  as  a  wife  any  longer.  Please  ask 
him  to  think  of  me  kindly.  Please  make  him  think  of  me  kindly. 
Please  make  him  forget  about  me.  Please,  if  I  have  done  wrong, 
forgive  me.  Don't  let  these  thoughts  come  to  me  any  more,  and  let 
Jock  come  soon.  And  don't  let  me  have  to  wait  here  very  long.  And 
please  be  good  to  me,  and  show  me  how  to  be  good."  She  was  ram 
bling  on,  comforted  by  the  mere  sound  of  the  words  which  she  uttered, 
but  when  she  paused  to  take  breath  she  heard  more  distinctly  than  ever 
those  words,  "  Death  cannot  part  us,  Barbara." 

"  Oh,  please,  Val  ! — oh,  please,  Val  !"  she  began,  piteously.  "  Oh, 
God,  don't  let  him  be  angry  with  me, — for  Christ's  sake  !  Oh,  Val, 
it  was  so  lonely  !  /  would  forgive  yon.  I  would  want  you  to  be 
happy.  We  will  all  love  each  other  in  heaven,  in  a  different  way. 
It  was  so  lonely, — oh,  it  was  so  lonely  !  You  don't  know  how  I 
missed  everything  :  I  had  to  drink  my  tea  all  alone,  and  it  was  so 
dreadful  in  the  dark  nights;  and  I  thought  of  you,  and  thought  of 
you,  until  my  heart  seemed  bursting.  You  don't  know  how  I  longed 
for  you,  Val.  I  used  to  pray  you  to  come  to  me, — you  must  have 
heard  me, — and  you  never  came  until  now, — until  now  when  it  seems 
so  dreadful.  I  wish  you  would  ask  God  to  let  me  die.  I  wish  you 

would  try  not  to  hate  me,  Val.  He  looked  so  like  you no,  that 

isn't  honest,  because  afterwards  I No  !  no !  Don't  say  it  any 

more,  Val  !  don't  say  it  any  more!  I  will  be  good.  Will  you  take 
neback?  Oh,  Val,  Val !  I  cannot  do  it!  I  cannot  marry  any  one 
else!  I'm  not  such  a  bad  woman  as  you  think  !  I  can't  do  that.  I 
couldn't  help  wanting  to,  but  I  can  help  doing  it, — I  can  help  doing  it. 
If  you  will  only  come  to  me  sometimes  !  It  was  so  lonely  !  I'm 
afraid  of  the  dark.  I  missed  you  so, — I  was  so  lonely, — all  the  time, 
all  the  time  !  I  won't  marry  him,  Val.  If  you'll  only  forgive  me  and 
take  me  back — no,  if  you'll  only  forgive  me — I'll  do  it  if  you'll  only 
forgive  me.  Indeed  I  will !  Indeed  I  will  !  Please,  Val,  don't  think 
I  really  meant  to  marry  him.  I  never  really  meant  to  marry  him.  I 
thought  I  did,  but  I  couldn't  have  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Oh,  I 
was  so  wicked  even  to  think  of  it  !  But  you  remember  how  I  felt  at 
first.  Oh,  I  hated  myself! — I  hated  myself!  I  tried  so  hard — oh,  I 
did  try, — I  did  try.  It  was  because  he  looked  like  you  at  first.  He 
looked  so  like  you,  I  thought  it  was  you  at  first ;  I  thought  you  had 
come  back.  I  have  been  so  wicked  ! — so  wicked  !  But  I  will  stop. 
I  will  be  good.  Please,  Val  ! — please,  Val  !  Please,  God,  don't  let  him 
laugh  at  me.  Oh,  Val,  don't  laugh  at  me ! " 


518  THE  QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt 

When  Bering  at  first  stooped  over  her,  as  she  lay,  face  down,  along 
the  altar  steps,  he  thought  that  she  was  dead. 

XXI. 

Barbara  was  unconscious  for  several  hours,  and  when  she  at  last 
came  to  her  senses  her  first  rational  wish  was  to  see  Dering.  Although 
it  was  then  midnight,  she  insisted  upon  being  helped  into  the  room 
where  she  had  received  him  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  her  rich  hair 
hanging  down  over  her  dressing-gown  of  white  silk,  and  straying  here 
and  there  among  the  bluish-gray  fur  with  which  it  was  trimmed,  like 
thin  veins  of  fire  through  curling  ashes.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  her 
eyes  dark,  wide,  with  unflickering  lids  spread  above  them  as  though 
held  in  place  by  the  slightly-lifted  eyebrows.  Dering  came  and  knelt 
gently  and  dumbly  beside  her,  attempting  to  lift  the  loosened  hands 
which  lay  along  her  lap.  She  withdrew  them  slowly,  and  clasped  them 
together  below  her  breast. 

"  Perhaps  I  worry  you,"  he  said,  alarmed  at  the  dreadful  unvary- 
ingness  of  her  attitude  and  expression.  "  Suppose  we  don't  try  to  talk 
to-night?" 

"  We  must  talk  to-night,"  she  said,  dully. 

"  But,  dearest,  we  can  say  everything  just  as  well  to-morrow.  Let 
me  help  you  up-stairs." 

"  There  won't  be  any  to-morrow,"  she  answered,  still  in  the  same 
dull  voice. 

Dering  tried  again  to  take  her  hands.  "  My  poor  darling  !  what  an 
awful  shock  you  must  have  had  !" 

"  It  was  very  dreadful,"  she  said. 

"  My  poor  love  !  I  know  it  was  !  Won't  you  give  me  your  hands, 
darling  ?  I  want  to  hold  them  and  warm  them.  You  look  so  cold  !" 

"  Yes, — that  is  it :  I  am  so  cold.  Wait :  you  may  have  one  of  my 

hands, — the  left  one.  Wait  a  minute, — until  I  find "  she  was 

groping  with  tremulous  fingers  in  the  breast  of  her  gown.  "  Here  it 
is,"  she  said,  finally,  and  held  out  to  him  her  open  palm,  on  which  lay 
a  plain  gold  ring. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  this?  What  must  I  do?"  said  Dering, 
startled.  "  What  ring  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  put  it  on.     It  is  my  wedding-ring." 

"  Barbara  !  Good  God  !  my  dear  girl,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I'm 
afraid  you  are  awfully  ill.  Let  me  call  some  one.  For  God's  sake,  do, 
there's  a  good  child  !" 

She  motioned  him  to  come  back.  "  Don't  call  any  one.  I  am  not 
ill.  I  know  exactly  what  I  am  doing.  That  is  my  wedding-ring.  I 
took  it  off.  You  must  put  it  on  again  ;  you  must !"  she  said,  with  th,e 
first  note  of  a  rising  excitement  in  her  voice. 

Dering  was  very  white,  and  he  set  his  teeth  until  his  ears  sang. 

"  I  think  you  very  ill,"  he  answered,  at  length,  in  a  controlled  voice. 
"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"But  I  do!"  she  cried,  half  rising;  "I  do!  God  has  told  me: 
he  told  me  in  those  awful  hours  in  the  church, — when  you  did  not 
come  to  me  ! — when  you  did  not  come  to  me  !" 


THE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEADt  519 

"  I  came  as  soon  as  I  could.  It  was  pitch-dark,  and  the  roads 
like  rivers.  Barbara,  you  break  my  heart  when  you  speak  to  me  like 
this  !" 

She  looked  at  him,  relapsing  once  more  into  her  first  stolidity  of 
voice  and  manner : 

"  Hearts  don't  break.  That  is  what  you  would  call  a — *  a  chest 
nut.'  "  She  did  not  smile,  and  continued  to  look  seriously  up  at  him, 
the  ring  still  lying  on  her  relaxed  palm.  He  had  a  horrible  revulsion 
of  feeling,  and  felt  his  mouth  beginning  to  twist  into  that  strangely 
distorted  grin  which  characterized  him  in  moments  of  violent  emotion. 
He  turned  away,  pretending  to  arrange  a  fold  in  one  of  the  rugs. 

"  It  strikes  me  as  almost  coarse,  the  use  of  such  an  expression  at 
such  a  time,"  he  said,  finally,  in  rather  a  hard  voice. 

"  Does  it  ?  Does  it  ?"  she  said,  a  little  curiously.  "  You  know  I 
told  you  I  was  coarse  once " 

"  Barbara  !"  was  all  that  he  could  roply. 

"  I  do  think  I  have  been  honest,"  she  went  on.  "  I  told  you  word 
for  word  how  I  felt  about  Val, — how  I  could  not  forget  him.  I  told 
you  how  he  haunted  me.  I  told  you  we  could  never  be  happy. 
Women  cannot  forget,  even  if  they  want  to, — at  least,  not  women  like 
me.  I  think  I  must  be  an  awful  thing, — an  unnatural  thing.  I  some 
times  wonder  if  God  made  me  for  an  experiment:  only  that  couldn't 
be  if  he  knows  everything  beforehand,  could  it?  No,  please  don't 
stop  me ;  I  feel  as  if  I  could  say  it  all  now,  better  than  I  ever  could 
again.  I  saw  everything  this  evening  in  the  church.  I  was  so  fright 
ened  !  He  spoke  to  me.  I  know  what  I  must  do.  I  see  how  wicked 
I  have  been.  I  have  been  coarse :  it  is  wicked  for  a  woman  to  be  coarse. 
I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  wanted  me.  I  was  his — I  was  his  first 
— I  was  his  wife.  I  couldn't  be  your  wife  too.  I  couldn't  forget.  I 
burned  up  my  wedding-dress  and  his  picture,  but  something  made  me 
keep  my  ring.  I  know  now  what  made  me  keep  it.  I  have  been  very 
wicked.  I  know  you  will  hate  me, — you  look  at  me  so  horribly. 
Somehow  I  am  not  afraid :  I  will  never  be  afraid  of  anything  again ; 
I  will  never  be " 

Dering  leaned  over,  seized  her  firmly  by  the  wrists,  and  pulled  her 
to  her  feet.  Her  wedding-ring  struck  sharply  on  the  polished  floor 
between  them. 

"  If  you  are  not  mad,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you  are  the  most  unutter 
ably  cruel  creature  I  ever  imagined."  But  his  words  seemed  not  to 
impress  her.  She  swayed  about  in  his  fierce  hold,  peering  from  side  to 
side  for  the  fallen  ring. 

"I  must  not  lose  that!  It's  all  I  have,"  she  said.  "Won't  you 
let  me  go,  just  until  I  find  it  ?" 

lie  threw  her  from  him  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  all  the  more  savage 
for  being  smothered.  lie  felt  at  that  moment  that  he  did  hate  her,  and 
the  firelight  on  her  long  red  hair  seemed  a  baleful  and  odious  thing  as 
it  glistened  and  moved,  with  the  lithe  curves  of  her  figure,  while  she 
crawled  about,  looking  for  her  lost  ring. 

"  I  can't  find  it!"  she  said  at  last,  gazing  helplessly  up  at  him,  and 
kneeling  back  on  her  heels,  with  her  hands  twisted  nervously  together 


520  THE   QUICK  OR    TEE  DEAD 1 

between  her  knees.     "  That's  gone  too !     I  haven't  anything  left  i  1 
think  God  might  let  me  die  !" 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  you  might  change  your  mind  after  you  wtre 
dead,"  suggested  Dering,  savagely. 

But  her  only  answer  was  to  go  on  groping  helplessly  about,  rour 
muring  from  time  to  time,  "  I  can't  find  it!  I  can't  find  it!  and  it's  all 
I  have !" 

"  Barbara,"  he  said,  after  some  moments  of  silent  waiting,  "  I  wish 
to  understand  you  thoroughly.  You  wish  me  to  go  away?  You  wish 
everything  to  be  ended  between  us?" 

"  I  don't  wish  anything,"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head  with 
brows  drawn  piteously  upward.  "  I  am  only  trying  to  do  what  is 
right." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  ruin  a  man's  whole  life  through  sheer 
morbidness?" 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  feel !  You  can't  know  how  I  feel ! 
He  said  death  could  not  separate  us ;  and  it  can't !  Why,  I  have  been 
his  wife, — his  wife!" 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  said  Dering,  fiercely.  "How 
many  times  do  you  suppose  that  has  come  to  me?  Good  God!  are 
women  human,  I  wonder?" 

"  1  meant  to  do  right,"  she  faltered,  great  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes.  "  You  don't  know  how  dreadful  it  is  to  remember  that  you  have 
been  one  man's  wife,  when  you  are  thinking  of  being  another's.  I 
think  God  has  been  very  cruel  to  me.  Oh,  he  has !  he  has  !" 

"And  what  do  you  think  he  has  been  to  me?"  said  Dering,  grin 
ning;  then,  with  a  strong  motion  of  his  arm,  as  though  flinging  some 
thing  hampering  from  him,  "No!  I'll  be  d d  if  I'll  shift  it  all  on 

Providence  !     What  do  you  think  you  have  been  to  me?" 

"  A  curse,"  she  whispered,  nodding  her  head  sagaciously  in  a  way 
that  struck  him  as  horrible.  "  Yes,  I  know  I've  been  a  curse  to  you. 
But  I've  never  been  your  wife;  and  then  men  forget.  You  are  so 
young.  Just  think  how  dreadful  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  marry 
you,  and  then  for  you  to  have  found — out — this!" 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  would  have  been  rather  unpleasant,"  he  admitted. 
Great  drops  stood  on  his  forehead  and  under  his  eyes,  but  his  voice 
and  manner  were  very  quiet. 

"You  see,  everything  can  be  worse,"  she  said.  "When  people 
used  to  say  that,  it  sounded  so  meaningless  to  me,  as  if  it  were  rant; 
but  it  is  so  true.  If  I  had  married  you  it  would  have  been  ten  thou 
sand  times  worse." 

"  And  yet  you  said  you  loved  me !"  he  burst  forth,  in  a  sort  of  rage, 

"And  1  d'id!  I  did!  You  don't  think  I  didn't?"  she  said, 
pausing  in  her  re-begun  search,  with  a  species  of  dull  surprise.  "I 
did  love  you." 

"Did  you,  indeed?"  said  Dering,  harshly.  "It  seems  there  are 
some  things  women  can  get  over,  after  all.  I  suppose  a  man  must  die 
and  haunt  them  to  be  remembered." 

"  But  you  do  believe  I  loved  you?     You  do  believe  that?" 

"I  did  believe  it,"  he  said,  with  rough  emphasis. 


THE   QUICK  OR    THE  DEAD  f  521 

"But  don't  you  believe  it  now?"  she  said,  anxiously.  "I  don't 
feel  anything  now,  but  I  know  I  loved  you.  Indeed,  indeed,  I'm  not 
so  bad  as  you  think;  and  I  must  have  loved  you,  to  act  as  I  did  :  it  all 
proves  that  I  did.  I  can't  help  not  doing  it  now;  I  can't  help  not 
being  sorry,  or  glad,  or  frightened,  or  anything,  now.  You  know  I 
wrote  you  once  in  a  letter  that  I  didn't  feel  anything.  But  I  know  I 
loved  you." 

"  1  believe  you  are  srazy,"  said  Dering,  in  a  strangled  voice. 

"  I  wish  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  plaintively ;  "  but  I  know  I'm 
not.  I'm  just  stunned  now,  because  I  have  been  on  such  a  terrible 
strain  for  so  long,  but  ray  mind  is  as  clear — as  cool.  I  see  everything  ; 
I  see  just  how  it  would  all  have  been  ;  and  I  see  how  you  are  obliged 
to  hate  me  at  first.  I  would  if  I  were  you.  You  can't  help  it.  I 
don't  feel  angry  with  you  because  you  hate  me :  it  would  be  unnatural 
if  you  did  not  ;  and  then  it  will  keep  it  from  hurting  you  so.  I  would 
a  great  deal  rather  have  you  hate  me  than  hurt  you." 

"  Would  you?"  said  Dering. 

"  Yes,  I  would, — I  would.     You  don't  believe  it,  but  I  would." 

"It  is  hard  to  believe  some  things,"  was  his  reply.  "I  think, 
if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  lend  me  a  trap,  that  I  will  drive  to 
Charlottesville." 

"To-night?"  she  said,  pausing  again  to  look  at  him. 

"  Yes,  to-night.  Perhaps  you  can  understand  a  feeling  (hat  I  have 
against  sleeping  another  night  in  this  house." 

"  It's  because  I'm  in  it,"  she  said,  sadly.  "I  don't  blame  yon.  ] 
don't  blame  you  in  the  least." 

"  That  is  very  good  of  you,"  he  remarked,  acridly.  "  Can  I  hope 
your  generosity  will  extend  to  the  loan  I  have  just  asked  for?" 

"  You  are  really  going  to-night?" 

"  If  you  will  kindly  lend  me  a  trap  and  horse,  and  some  one  to 
open  gates." 

"  You  can  order  what  you  wish,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Thanks,"  he  replied.     "  I  suppose  I  may  shake  your  hand?" 

She  held  it  out  to  him  silently. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  "  good-by,  Barbara." 

"  Good-by,"  she  answered,  looking  down  at  their  clasped  hands. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  once  more;  once  more  she  answered  him,  still 
keeping  her  eyes  on  their  hands,  which  now  fell  apart  silently,  lie 
went  to  the  door,  and  passed  out,  only  to  re-enter  stumblingly,  to  catch 
her  to  him,  to  bruise  her  face  and  throat  with  short,  hard  kisses. 

"  I  love  you  !"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  terrible  anguish.  "  I  am  a 
coward  :  I  love  you  in  spite  of  everything  !  Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara, 
you  will  1)6  so  sorry  for  this  to-morrow,  when  I  am  beyond  your  reach, 
— when  you  know  that  I  have  gone  forever!  For  I  won't  come  back 
after  this:  I  will  never  come  back.  Barbara,  think  of  it  all  ! — think 
of  our  l>cautifu]  hours  together, — of  my  kisses, — of  the  way  you  have 
clung  to  me, — of  the  way  you  have  kissed  my  hair,  my  eyes,  my 
throat, — as  I  kiss  yours  now  !" 

lie  almost  hurt  her  in  his  desperate  eagerness,  but  he  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  rouse  response  in  a  corpse.  She  lay  in  his  arms  panting, 


522  TRE   QUICK  OR   THE  DEAD1 

but  listless,  and  the  eyes  that  she  lifted  to  him  were  full  of  a  certain 
timid  pleading  and  dwelt  upon  him  through  great  tears. 

"  I  try  to  feel  sorry,  and  I  only  feel  sorry  because  I  am  not  really 
sorry,"  she  said,  tiredly.  "  I  know  you  are  going,  and  that  I  loved 
you,  and  I  try  so  hard  to  be  sorry ;  but  I  can  only  think  how  nice  it 
will  be  to  go  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep.  I  am  so  tired  !  I  don't  think  I 
will  ever  cry  again,  except  because  I  can't  cry.  Oh,  it  all  sounds  so 
silly  !  but  please  try  to  understand." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  just  touching  her  soft  hair  with 
strong  but  trembling  fingers.  "  Give  me  your  lips  this  once." 

She  lifted  her  mouth,  but  his  passionate  kiss  left  her  parted  lips  as 
piteously  expressionless  as  ever.  "  I  can't  do  it !  I  can't  feel  anything ! 
I  try  so  hard  !" 

He  knelt  suddenly  at  her  feet,  and  lifted  her  hands  to  his  thick 
curls. 

"  Say,  { God  be  with  you,  Jock,'  "  he  whispered,  stammering. 

She  said  it  very  sweetly,  in  a  clear,  earnest  voice,  as  though  anxious 
to  please  him  :  "  God  be  with  you,  Jock." 

"  And  with  you,"  he  said,  giving  one  heavy  sob. 

Pie  held  her  for  a  moment  tightly  about  her  knees,  then  went, 
closing  the  door  after  him  with  careful  softness. 

As  he  left  the  room,  she  fell  once  more  to  looking  for  the  lost  ring, 
found  it  at  last  underneath  the  fender,  and,  blowing  the  ashes  from  it, 
slipped  it  upon  her  finger  as  Dering  drove  from  the  door. 


THE    SKD. 


WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR  EASTERN  CAPITAL.          523 


WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR   EASTERN  CAPITAL. 

PUBLIC  attention  is  at  present  directed  to  Western  mortgagee  as  a 
means  of  relief  to  Eastern  people  who  have  long  suffered  from  the 
prevailing  low  rates  of  interest  and  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  investments 
at  once  safe  and  fairly  remunerative.  The  cause  of  the  awakened  at 
tention  paid  to  this  class  of  securities  is  found  in  the  condition  of  the 
money-lending  market  East  and  West.  A  great  disparity  exists  in  the 
rate  of  interest  which  can  be  obtained  in  the  two  sections  for  money 
lent  upon  equally  good  mortgage  security.  In  the  large  cities  of  the 
Atlantic  seaboard  persons  living  on  incomes  derived  from  fortunes 
invested  with  conservative  prudence — prudence  either  voluntary  or  im 
posed  by  law,  as  in  the  case  of  trustees — have  been  suffering  real  hard 
ship,  both  from  the  constant  lowering  of  the  rate  of  interest  and  from 
the  fact  of  a  portion  of  every  estate  lying  idle,  awaiting  investment. 

The  principle  which  regulates  this  is  a  familiar  one  in  business,- 
supply  and  demand.  Borrowers,  desiring  to  obtain  money  upon  first- 
class  real  estate,  in  any  one  of  the  large  cities  of  the  East,  go  to  one 
after  another  of  the  trust  companies,  or  other  aggregations  of  capital. 
The  eager  demand  for  good  mortgages  enables  better  and  better  terms 
to  be  exacted  from  each  successive  plethoric  lender.  Down  goes  the 
rate  of  interest, — six  per  cent.,  five  and  a  half,  five,  four  and  a  half, 
and  even  four,  if  the  security  be  especially  desirable  and  the  money 
lenders  overloaded  with  idle  money.  Finally,  the  impossibility  of 
obtaining  an  adequate  supply  of  safe  mortgages,  even  at  these  low  rates, 
compels  financial  institutions  and  trustees  to  put  their  funds  to  an 
excessive  degree  into  Government,  State,  and  City  bonds.  Hence  the 
extraordinary  demand  for  this  class  of  securities  has  caused  them  to 
rise  to  such  a  premium  that,  while  paying  from  three  and  a  half  to  six 
per  cent,  on  their  par  value,  they  in  many  instances  net  only  from  two 
and  a  half  to  three  and  a  quarter  per  cent,  on  their  cost.  The  Eastern 
investor  thus  finds  it  impossible  to  lend  his  funds  for  a  fair  return  un 
less  he  venture  into  shady  securities,  where  he  can  command  a  higher 
return, — not  for  the  use  of  his  money,  but  for  the  risk  of  its  Toss. 
Just  how  to  pick  one's  way  between  the  desert  of  low  interest  and  the 
sea  of  bad  investment  is  the  problem  daily  confronting  every  prudent 
person  with  money  to  invest. 

But,  if  he  were  to  shut  himself  up  for  twenty-four  hours  in  a  lux 
urious  drawing-room  car  and,  travelling  toward  the  setting  sun,  alight 
in  a  prosperous  county  town,  an  entirely  different  state  of  things  would 
be  observed.  Instead  of  too  much  money  and  too  few  good  mortgages, 
the  exact  contrary  is  the  case.  Mortgages  upon  the  best  real -estate 
security  are  offered  to  the  local  bank,  but  the  bank  has  loaned  ite  funds 
to  the  farmers  to  move  their  crops,  to  the  tradesmen  to  lay  in  their 
season's  stock,  to  the  thousand-and-one  temporary  borrowers  in  a  grow 
ing  country  requiring  money  for  a  short  period  and  willing  to  pay  liber 
ally  for  it.  The  mortgage  is  hawked  about  from  place  to  place  j  the 


524  WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR   EASTERN   CAPITAL, 

rate  of  interest  rises  as  the  difficulty  of  procuring  money  increases  ;  six, 
six  and  a  half,  seven,  seven  and  a  half,  eight,  nine,  and  even  ten  per 
cent,  is  finally  demanded.  That  a  borrower  can  afford  to  pay  such  rates 
for  money  and  yet  thrive  seems  difficult  to  believe,  unless  one  is  informed 
as  to  the  profits  derived  from  the  various  Western  industries.  A  recent 
careful  authority  has  said  that  the  profits  of  grain-,  sheep-,  and  cattle- 
raising — the  chief  industries  beyond  the  Missouri — are  enormous.  The 
average  is  not  infrequently  twenty-five  percent,  on  wheat,  fifty  per  cent, 
on  sheep,  and  on  cattle  a  great  return,  varying  with  the  circumstances. 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  high  rates  can  be  paid  for  money  in  order  to  pro 
cure  and  improve  land  which  will  yield  such  results. 

It  therefore  appears  that  those  having  money  to  lend  are  enabled, 
by  a  few  hours'  rail  way -journey,  to  command  perhaps  twice  as  much 
for  the  loan  of  their  capital,  and  upon  security  equally  good, — pro 
vided  they  know  in  the  West  as  well  as  in  the  East  how  to  distinguish 
between  good  and  bad.  Many  persons  have  made  fortunes,  and  not  a 
few  corporations  have  grown  rich  and  powerful,  by  this  obvious  course 
of  lending  where  lenders  are  few  and  borrowers  plenty. 

But  the  number  of  persons  who  can  afford  the  leisure  and  expense 
of  making  such  trips — whose  capital  to  be  lent  is  large  enough  to  war 
rant  such  expeditions,  whose  intelligence  and  energy  are  equal  to  the 
undertaking — must  always  be  limited,  and  hence  the  disparity  between 
the  rates  East  and  West  continues.  To  bring  the  Eastern  lender  within 
reach  of  the  Western  borrower  and  to  be  compensated  for  the  trouble 
out  of  the  difference  in  the  prevailing  rates  of  interest  the  new  invest 
ment  companies  have  sprung  up.  Briefly  stated,  their  function  is  to 
take  the  Eastern  lender's  money  to  the  Western  borrower,  to  obtain 
the  local  knowledge  necessary  for  its  safe  investment,  to  manage  the 
details,  and  to  give  the  lender  the  advantages  of  the  higher  rates,  after 
deducting  a  modest  proportion  thereof  as  compensation.  To  this  has 
Ixjen  added  a  system  of  guaranteeing,  of  which  more  hereafter. 

The  plan  is  but  the  application  of  an  old  idea  to  the  requirements 
of  a  new  country.  Mortgages,  themselves,  are  of  great  antiquity. 
The  Ivoman  pledge  of  land  as  security  differed  but  little  from  our  com 
mon  mortgage,  while  the  Grecian  was  chiefly  different  in  the  manner 
of  jvrjH'tuating  the  evidence  of  existence  of  the  mortgage:  in  lieu  of  a 
recorder's  office  a  stone  was  set  in  a  corner  of  the  mortgaged  field,  with 
the  amount  loaned  and  the  name  of  the  lender  graven  upon  it.  The 
English  common-law  mortgage,  brought  by  our  own  ancestors  to  this 
country  and  bearing  a  close  resemblance  to  the  antique  model,  has 
existed  practically  without  change  since  the  earliest  beginning  of 
common  law.  The  writers  upon  finance  uniformly  dilate  upon  the 
stability  of  land  as  security,  but  point  out  the  disadvantage  which  at 
tends  it  in  that  it  is  not  readily  negotiable  and  in  the  formalities  and 
expense  of  its  transfer,  both  as  security  and,  subsequently  if  necessary, 
as  satisfaction  for  debt.  To  convert  the  unwieldy  real  estate  into  com 
mercially  negotiable  security,  like  stock,  without  losing  its  stability  as 
a  security,  is  the  problem  to  which  land-mortgage  companies  devote 
thoir  ingenuity.  The  idea  appeared  in  a  crude  state  in  the  fanciful 
schemes  of  John  Law,  whose  proposition  for  a  paper- money  inflation  by 


WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR   EASTERN  CAPITAL.          525 

the  government,  based  upon  the  landed  property  of  England,  captivated 
the  impecunious  country  squires  of  the  then  House  of  Commons.  But 
to  a  Berlin  merchant,  Biiring,  belongs  the  credit,  in  1770,  of  perfect 
ing  that  brilliant  financial  system  which,  under  the  name  of  "  Credit 
Fonder,"  has  spread  over  the  whole  of  Europe  during  the  past  century, 
with  some  changes  of  detail  in  various  centuries.  It  is  not  the  purpose 
of  this  paper  to  discuss  these  details :  suffice  it  to  say  that  in  France, 
whore  it  was  introduced  by  M.  Wolowsky  about  fifty  years  ago,  the 
credit  fonder  has  attained  its  most  gigantic  proportions  and  its  greatest 
success.  In  England  the  system  has  scarcely  been  introduced,  and 
such  companies  as  exist  for  bringing  borrower  and  lender  together  have 
not  yet  arrived  at  the  stage  of  development  which  is  the  unique  feature 
of  the  true  credit  fonder, — viz.,  the  issuing  of  negotiable  bonds  based 
upon  landed  security.  This  well-tested  financial  system  has  been  im 
ported  to  America;  and  it  is  here,  in  a  country  where  the  money  is 
more  unevenly  distributed  and  the  population  more  widely  .separated 
geographically  than  in  any  country  of  Europe,  that,  modified  and 
adapted  to  its  particular  work,  it  seems  destined  to  accomplish  its 
greatest  results. 

As  hinted  above,  the  recent  investment  companies  have  perfected  a 
guaranteeing  system  partially  modelled  upon  the  European  plan.  In 
stead  of  transferring  each  Western  mortgage  to  a  particular  Eastern 
investor,  the  mortgages  are  brought  to  the  East  and  deposited,  en  masse, 
with  another  corporation, — a  trust  company, — to  be  held  in  trust  for 
the  Eastern  investors,  who  are  given  bonds — called  debenture  bonds — 
secured  upon  the  whole  block  of  mortgages  thus  held  by  the  trustee. 
The  advantages  of  this  arrangement  are  obvious.  If  interest  upon  a 
mortgage  prove  difficult  to  collect,  and  if  foreclosure,  delay  without 
interest,  and  perhaps  loss  of  capital,  be  the  result,  the  whole  of  the  in 
convenience  and  loss  falls  not  upon  the  unfortunate  individual  holder 
of  that  particular  mortgage,  but  uj>on  the  combined  capital  of  the  in 
vestors.  A  small  percentage  of  foreclosures  involving  losses,  or,  in 
some  cases,  gains,  will  always  occur,  but  loss  or  gain  will  be  a  matter 
of  small  moment  to  the  investors  when  combined. 

The  debentures  are  either  five  or  six  per  cent,  bonds.  That  rep 
resents  the  cost  of  money  to  the  company.  It  is  then  lent  in  the 
West  at  an  average  of  perhaps  seven  per  cent.,  although  this  rate 
di tiers  widely  with  comparatively  trifling  changes  of  locality  and  is  de 
pendent  upon  the  facilities  of  access  and  the  degree  of  notoriety  the 
section  enjoys  in  the  East.  It  must  be  remembered  that  to  advertise 
or  "  puff"  a  Western  locality  is  a  well-recognized  field  for  public  co 
operation,  and  plans  for  doing  so  effectually  are  as  carefully  and  frankly 
discussed  as  municipal  improvements.  But,  aside  from  this  local  in 
fluence,  it  is  observable  that  the  rate  has  steadily  declined  of  recent 
years,  while  the  rate  in  the  East  will  be  stiffened  by  the  Western  drain. 
Thus  the  tendency  of  the  new  companies  is  to  equalize  the  rates  be 
tween  East  and  West, — a  great  public  benefit. 

The  method  of  transacting  business  varies  with  the  company.  The 
usual  course  is  to  take  from  the  borrower  a  mortgage  to  secure  the  pay 
ment  of  two  notes, — one  note  for  the  amount  of  the  principal,  with  the 


526  WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR  EASTERN   CAPITAL. 

interest  at  the  same  percentage  as  that  at  which  the  company  gets  the 
money  from  the  Eastern  investors  (say  five  per  cent.),  and  the  other 
note  for  the  extra  interest,  computed  for  the  entire  term.  This  lattei 
note  represents  the  company's  profit, — the  difference  between  the  rates 
of  interest  in  the  East  and  in  the  West. 

It  will  readily  be  seen  that  to  procure  a  million  dollars  at  five  per 
cent,  in  the  East  and  to  lend  it  in  the  West  for  seven  per  cent,  for  three 
years — a  profit  of  six  per  cent,  in  three  years,  or  sixty  thousand  dol 
lars — is  a  very  lucrative  business.  It  is  natural  that  such  a  business 
should  attract  capitalists,  and  that  its  apparent  simplicity  should  be 
misleading  to  some.  Nothing  would  seem  to  be  required  but  to  com 
mand  sufficient  confidence  to  obtain  the  money  in  the  East  and  adequate 
agencies  to  distribute  it  in  the  West.  No  supposition,  however,  could 
be  more  erroneous.  The  most  intimate  knowledge  of  the  locality,  the 
most  experienced  and  honest  agents  and  lawyers,  and  the  utmost  con 
servatism  even  with  these  precautions,  are  necessary  to  lend  money  safely 
in  the  West.  The  values  are  more  recently  established  than  in  the 
East.  There  is  much  discounting  of  the  future, — a  tendency  to  base 
calculations  of  present  value  upon  hopeful  anticipation  of  future  in 
crease.  The  next  few  years  are  looked  to  for  as  great  a  proportionate 
increase  as  the  last,  which  market!  the  birth  of  a  new  place.  A  child 
upon  seeing,  for  the  first  time,  a  mushroom  grown  to  the  height  of 
several  inches  during  its  first  night's  existence,  might  be  led  to  suppose 
that  in  a  few  days  it  would  become  a  prominent  feature  in  the  land 
scape.  Similarly,  in  a  town  which,  springing  into  existence  ten  years 
ago,  has  doubled  its  population  each  five  years  and  quadrupled  the  as 
sessed  valuations  of  its  property  in  the  same  period,  the  people  Ixjcome 
infected  with  a  propensity  to  exaggerate  the  probable  future  growth. 
Deceived  by  brief  experience,  biassed  by  local  patriotism,  and  interested 
in  enhancing  the  reputed  value  of  their  own  belongings,  the  hopes  of 
the  future  become  the  fictitious  effigy  of  the  present.  It  requires  many 
years  to  convince  the  inhabitants  that  the  town  has  its  own  rank,  be 
yond  which  it  will  grow  but  slowly.  The  memory  of  the  shock  caused 
by  the  collapse  of  the  city  of  Indianapolis  after  the  insane  era  of  infla 
tion  known  as  the  "  Indianapolis  boom"  even  yet  furnishes  the  text  for 
conservative  utterances  in  the  West.  If  the  company  rely  upon  the 
opinion  of  resident  appraisers,  even  when  honest  and  faithful,  these 
considerations  should  temper  the  confidence  reposed  in  their  judgment. 
And  if  the  appraisers  be  not  actuated  by  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to  their 
employer,  the  wish  to  favor  a  neighbor  at  the  exj)ense  of  a  foreign  cor 
poration,  or  the  desire  to  enhance  the  value  of  property  owned  by  the 
appraisers  themselves,  will  tend  to  lessen  the  accuracy  of  their  estimates. 

To  insure  the  least  possible  bias,  well-managed  companies  take  great 
care  in  the  selection  of  agents,  both  as  to  their  honesty  and  also  as  to 
their  freedom  from  local  prejudice,  and,  in  order  to  add  the  inducement 
of  self-interest,  treat  them  liberally  and  subject  them  to  great  responsi 
bility.  But  beyond  this  some  checks  are  necessary  to  guard  against  the 
weakness  of  human  nature.  One  check  consists  of  a  careful  scrutiny 
at  intervals  by  officers  from  the  East,  if  possible  not  by  the  mortgage 
company;  but  by  the  trust  company  with  whom  the  mortgages  are 


WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR   EASTERN  CAPITAL.          527 

deposited  in  trust.  By  far  the  most  effective  check,  however,  consists 
of  an  accumulation  of  data  relating  to  the  country  in  which  the  loans 
are  to  be  made,  which  will  enable  principal  officers  to  stop  careless 
lending  by  sub-agents.  These  data,  consisting  of  maps  and  notes  made 
by  agents  travelling  over  the  section  in  buggies,  showing  the  water 
courses,  the  character  of  the  land, — whether  low  or  high,  wet  or  dry, 
stony  or  fertile, — the  yield  per  acre  of  the  neighboring  cultivated  land, 
and,  to  some  extent,  the  nationality  of  the  settlers  (there  being  a  great 
difference  in  the  thriftiness  of  the  nationalities),  are  indispensable  to  a 
sound  management  of  the  business.  Their  preparation  involves  no 
little  outlay,  but  when  once  completed  they  constitute  a  "  plant"  which 
is  as  necessary  as  machinery  to  a  manufacturer.  By  spreading  this 
information  on  carefully-prepared  maps,  showing  all  these  particulars, 
and  indicating  the  value  of  the  land  per  acre  at  each  change  of  topog 
raphy  or  physical  conditions,  the  superior  officers  are  enabled  to  exercise 
a  most  intelligent  supervision  of  the  work  of  subordinates.  In  the 
early  attempts  at  transacting  this  business,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
there  were  several  disastrous  failures  where  bonds  had  been  sold  in  the 
East  which  were  supposed  to  be  secured  by  carefully-selected  mortgages 
in  the  West,  but  which  were  found  to  be  of  the  wildest  character, 
through  lack  of  organization,  and  impositions  and  mistakes  of  agents. 
With  the  modern  companies  foreclosures  are  very  infrequent,  and,  even 
where  they  occur,  the  result  has  usually  been  that  the  land  brought 
more  than  the  mortgage, — an  actual  profit.  Well-managed  concerns 
find  foreclosure  necessary  only  as  to  about  one  per  cent,  of  the  aggregate 
money  invested  in  mortgages,  and  the  net  result  even  of  this  small 
number  of  foreclosures  is  not  a  loss. 

But  meagre  published  statistics  are  obtainable  on  the  subject.  In 
the  report  of  a  special  committee  of  the  Connecticut  Legislature,  made 
in  1878,  upon  the  condition  and  management  of  life-insurance  com 
panies  (which  lend  largely  in  the  West  on  mortgages),  the  results  of 
six  companies  are  given,  which  commenced  loaning  in  the  West  at 
various  periods,  the  earliest  being  1851.  The  total  amount  loaned  by 
all  was  sixty-eight  millions,  of  which  forty-six  millions  were  outstand 
ing  at  the  date  of  the  report.  The  gains  by  foreclosure  had  been  nine 
thousand  dollars,  while  the  losses  had  been  but  six  thousand.  It  is 
obvious  that  to  insure  against  such  infrequent  losses  for  a  Irigh  premium 
is  a  paying  business.  And  that  is  practically  what  the  modern  guaran 
teeing  mortgage  companies  do, — insure  against  losses,  in  addition  to 
managing  the  details  of  loaning  the  money. 

These  corporations  are  subjected  to  another  danger  besides  that  of 
reckless  lending,  and  that  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  laws  of  certain 
Western  States!  It  seems  at  first  glance  a  little  paradoxical  that  the 
sections  of  the  country  most  in  need  of  capital — the  South  and  West — 
should,  in  a  general  course  of  legislation,  discriminate  against  foreign 
and  Eastern  money.  It  might  be  expected  that  a  growing  country, 
needing  capital,  would  do  all  in  its  power  to  render  it  secure,  and  thus 
invite  that  most  timid  and  mercurial  of  economic  forces.  This  would 
be  the  more  broad-minded  policy ;  but,  perhaps  from  a  tendency  to  cater 
tc  the  majority  (most  of  whom  are  already  borrowers  in  fear  of  cred- 
VOL.  XLI.— 34 


528  WESTERN  INVESTMENTS  FOR  EASTERN  CAPITAL. 

itors),  laws  have  been  passed  in  some  States  which,  in  restraining  the 
influx  of  Eastern  capital  to  be  lent  upon  mortgage,  have  had  as  much 
effect  as  the  similarly  planned  preferred-creditors  laws  have  had  in 
keeping  out  Eastern  merchants.  In  the  case  of  mortgages  this  tendency 
of  the  legislatuie  is  chiefly  manifested  in  the  equity  of  redemption, — 
a  time  given  to  a  defaulting  mortgagor,  whose  land  has  been  sold, 
within  which  he  may  come  forward  and  pay  up  principal  and  interest 
and  get  his  land  back, — during  which  period  the  title  of  the  foreclosing 
mortgagee  is  incomplete  and  subject  to  be  defeated  by  the  redemption 
of  the  mortgagor.  The  effect  of  this  is,  of  course,  bad.  The  company 
loaning  the  money,  in  case  of  default,  forecloses,  but  does  not  then 
become  possessed  of  a  clear  title  that  can  at  once  be  sold  if  a  buyer  be 
found,  but  of  an  incomplete  title,  which  may  be  divested  by  the  former 
owner  coming  forward  with  the  amount  of  the  debt.  It  is  curious  to 
note  how  the  folly  of  these  laws  increases  as  the  States  considered  are 
farther  from  the  centres  of  capital  and  therefore  of  sound  financial 
theories.  In  most  of  the  middle  Western  States  the  objectionable 
features  are  reduced  to  a  minimum :  the  purchaser  at  the  sale  goes 
into  immediate  possession,  and  is  only  subject  to  be  divested  within 
twelve  months,  during  which  period  the  debt  carries  interest. 

In  the  States  lying  somewhat  farther  West  the  status  of  the  buyer 
is  the  same  as  in  those  last  mentioned,  but  the  time  is  extended  to  two 
years.  In  some  of  the  far  Western  States,  however,  the  height  of  the 
folly  of  these  laws  is  reached,  and  results  in  virtual  prohibition  of 
money-lending  by  prudent  companies.  The  extraordinary  provision  is 
inserted  that,  after  default,  the  debtor  instead  of  the  creditor  remains 
in  possession  of  the  land  during  the  period  of  the  equity  of  redemp 
tion,  which  is  two  years.  And  it  has  been  decided  in  more  than  one 
of  these  States  that  no  language  can  be  employed  in  the  instrument 
which  shall  constitute  a  waiver  of  this  provision.  The  practical  effect 
of  such  a  law  is  that  adventurers  take  up  new  land  from  the  govern 
ment,  borrow  on  it,  default  upon  the  interest,  remain  in  possession  two 
years,  deriving  the  benefits  of  the  crops,  and  decamp  with  their  movable 
effects  to  fresh  fields  in  order  to  repeat  the  transaction.  Competent 
local  lawyers,  selected  and  visited  at  intervals  by  home  lawyers,  are 
required  to  guard  against  these  and  other  legal  dangers. 

The  time  has  come  to  urge  the  legislatures  to  legalize  the  invest 
ment,  under  proper  supervision  of  the  courts,  of  trust  funds  in  this 
class  of  securities.  In  many  States  the  courts  are  already  permitted  to 
authorize  trust  companies  (where  there  are  such  of  undoubted  responsi 
bility  and  open  to  inspection  by  officers  of  the  court)  to  act  as  trustees, 
executors,  guardians,  and  in  several  fiduciary  capacities.  There  can  be 
no  good  reason  why  the  legislatures,  if  the  subject  be  carefully  laid 
before  them  and  explained  to  their  committees,  should  not  permit  these 
investments  and  thus  provide  an  outlet  for  idle  trust  funds.  The  ob 
jection  to  allowing  trustees  to  invest  in  mortgages  beyond  the  jurisdic 
tion  of  the  courts  is,  of  course,  a  sound  one,  but  in  the  case  of  debenture 
bonds  which  are  guaranteed  by  a  home  company  within  the  control  of 
the  court  and  additionally  secured  by  Western  mortgages,  the  objection 
that  the  investment  is  out  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  court  fails,  while 


VERZENAY.  529 

the  double  security  of  the  guarantee  and  the  real  estate  furnishes  the 
best  practical  argument  in  favor  of  such  an  innovation. 

No  one  who  has  had  any  experience  in  managing  Eastern  invest 
ments  in  the  West  can  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  richness  of  the  field  for 
lending, — the  demand,  safety,  and  high  interest  which  capital  enjoys, — 
nor  by  the  apathy  or  ignorance  which  induces  the  mass  of  Eastern 
persons  to  content  themselves  with  starvation  rates  in  their  immediate 
localities.  Like  all  financial  operations,  the  Western  mortgage  business 
requires  care,  experience,  and  discretion.  When  conducted  with  these 
safeguards,  it  affords  the  public  a  secure  and  remunerative  means  of 
making  investment,  and  to  the  companies  a  profitable  revenue. 

Thomas  Learning. 


VEEZENAY. 

0  VERZENAY,  pink  Yerzenay  ! 
At  Brighton,  friendless  by  the  sea, 
Tell  me  true  words  that  I  shall  say 
To  passionate  Venus,  good  for  me. 

Surely  not  yet  dost  thou  forget 

The  waving  summer  of  thy  prime, 
When  those  dark  eyes  thy  clusters  met, 
And  long  white  feet  on  thee  were  set, 
Till  delicate  veins  thy  red  life  wet.: 
Filling  thee  up  with  will  to  climb 
And  fire  us  of  a  colder  time ! 

O  Verzenay,  pink  Verzenay, 
Thy  life  I  think  will  live  for  aye  ! 
Some  thought  thou  bringest  me  to-day 

Misty  and  glorious  of  old  times : 
As  in  a  dream  my  soul-feet  stray 

On  dew-damp  ways  in  greener  climes. 

O  Venus !  I  behold  an  eye 

That  once  could  glow  as  fierce  as  tliine ; 
A  bubbling  pulse  that  beat  as  high 

As  thine  own  veins  made  big  with  wine. 

Ah,  less  and  less — no  sweet  caress 

With  thy  lithe  handmaids  brightens  them  ; 

But  still  thy  path  my  feet  shall  press, 
Thy  head  shall  wed  my  auadem ! 

Of  old  I  dreamed  a  horn  should  sound ; 

My  pulse  sustain  a  fairy  child ; 
And  I  should  find  the  fated  ground 

And  wake  the  princess  in  the  wild. 


530  VERZENAY. 

Then  I  should  meet  the  giant  grim, 
And  slay  him  winning  mighty  fame ; 

The  world  should  hear  my  victor  hymn 
And  marvel  at  my  noble  name  ! 

My  voice  grows  weak  to  wind  the  horn ; 

The  sleeping  princess  still  doth  sleep ; 
And  darkening  o'er  the  glimmering  morn 

The  shadows  of  the  night-tide  creep  ! 

Nathless,  I  met  the  giant  grim — 

The  cold  earth.     Chill  my  veins  as  lead ; 

My  hair  is  thin  ;  mine  eyes  are  dim  ; 
The  fight  is  lost ;  the  song  is  dead  ! 

Yet,  goddess,  by  the  ceaseless  sea 
At  Brighton,  still  I  worship  thee, 
Lonely  and  old  at  twenty-three  ! 
The  immortal  marvel  of  thy  lips, 
Thy  fierce  black  eyes  and  awful  hips, 
Shine  seldom  through  my  hope's  eclipse  ! 
Make  glad  my  bosom  with  thy  smile, 
For  long  I  seek  thy  vine-dark  isle 
At  Avalon,  o'er  many  a  mile  ! 
Yon  crescent  curves  o'er  western  groves, 
But  farther,  west  the  round  sun  roves 
To  light  the  night  of  other  loves : 
And  I  again  have  prayed  in  vain, 
Yet  nevermore  shall  I  complain  ! 

O  sparkling  life  !  quick  Verzenay  ! 
Thy  soul-sparks  on  the  wan  lips  play 
Of  one  whose  spirit  wanes  to-day  ! 
At  twenty-three  I'm  forty-six, 
At  Brighton,  by  the  moaning  sea. 
What  shall  I  be  at  thirty-three  ? 
No  doubt  I  shall  be  sixty-six 
Nigh  Hades  on  the  gloomy  Styx  ! 

Well,  hearken,  sparkling  Verzenay, 
And  thank  thee  for  the  tire  to-day ! 
And  shining  Venus,  flushed  as  wine, 
Albeit  I  know  no  love  of  thine, 
Even  though  thy  proud  eyes  seek  for  me, 
x        Thou  shalt  not  see  a  quailing  knee, 
Though  I  shall  sail  Styx'  sombre  sea 
To-day,  sad  Heart,  at  twenty-three  ! 

Daniel  L,  Datuwn. 


SOME  DAYS    WITH  AMELIE  RIVES.  531 


SOME  DAYS   WITH  AMELIE  RIVES. 

171  VERY  one  now  knows  the  story  of  how  "A  Brother  to  Dragons'' 
JjJ  was  offered  to  the  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  by  one  some 
where  designated  "  as  a  visiting  friend,"  how  he  accepted  it  at  once,  with 
the  enthusiastic  remark,  "  The  man  who  wrote  this  will  never  do  any 
thing  stronger,"  how  it  was  published  anonymously  and  won  instant 
appreciation,  and  how  the  public  was  soon  after  surprised  to  learn  that 
a  young  girl  living  in  a  Virginia  country  house  was  the  author  of 
this  vivid  and  picturesque  and  passiouate  tale.  Perhaps  the  "visit 
ing  friend"  whispered  it  to  others,  the  name  of  Ame'lie  Rives.  At  all 
events,  it  was  very  shortly  signed  to  a  free,  strong,  stirring  sonnet  in 
the  Century.  Several  mouths  later  appeared  in  Lippinoott  "  The  Farrier 
Lass  o'  Piping  Pebworth,"  which  was  perhaps  more  widely  and  more 
generously  criticised  than  any  short  story  of  recent  fiction.  In  quick 
succession  followed  "Nurse  Crumpet's  Story,"  a  divinely  passionate 
poem  called  "  Grief  and  Faith,"  and  the  strongly  imaginative  "  Story 
of  Arnon." 

Miss  Ame'lie  Hives  is  the  grand-daughter  of  William  Cabell  Rivea, 
the  Congressman,  Senator,  and  Minister-Plenipotentiary  to  France  of 
the  earlier  half  of  the  present  century.  It  was  during  the  reign  of 
Louis  Philippe  that  the  birth  of  Mr.  Rives's  eldest  daughter  was  the 
occasion  of  a  graceful  compliment  from  the  French  queen  in  the  be 
stowal  of  her  name  upon  the  little  lady.  This  Amelie,  whose  life  opened 
in  the  romance  of  court  life,  and  who  bore  always  the  prestige  of  a 
queen's  name,  proved  a  woman  of  decided  character  and  talent,  and  her 
gifts — a  faint  shadowing  of  those  to  be  possessed  by  a  namesake  yet 
unborn — were  cruelly  curtailed  by  her  death  in  1874,  when  she  was 
drowned  with  her  family  on  the  ill-fated  Ville  du  Havre. 

Colonel  Alfred  Landon  Hives,  the  father  of  Ame'lie  Rives,  wa& 
also  born  in  Paris,  and  can  boast  of  Lafayette  as  a  godfather.  He  was 
educated  chiefly  in  Paris,  graduated  at  the  Ecole  Polytechnique  with 
distinguished  honor,  and  adopted  civil  engineering  as  his  profession. 
In  1861  he  was  married  to  Miss  Macmurdo,  a  grand-daughter  of  Bishop 
Moore,  of  Virginia,  and  a  noted  beauty.  To  them  was  born  in  1863, 
in  the  town  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  the  now  famous  Amelie  Rives. 
Colonel  Rives's  profession  entailed  a  somewhat  wandering  life,  there 
fore  the  early  years  of  the  little  Ame'lie  were  chiefly  passed  at  the  old 
home  of  her  grandfather,  Castle  Hill,  in  Albemarle  County,  Virginia. 
She  was  a  favorite  companion  of  the  grave  statesman  until  his  death, 
when  the  baby  had  grown  to  be  a  solemn-faced  little  creature  of  four. 
Colonel  Rives  continued  to  make  Castle  Hill  his  home  for  two  years 
longer,  and  in  that  time  the  child  contracted  an  almost  passionate  love 
for  the  beautiful  old  homestead,  which  did  not  until  some  years  later 
become  the  property  of  its  present  owner.  Her  eyes  seemed  never 
rested  unless  they  gazed  out  on  the  rolling  meadows  beyond  the  lawn 
gate  or  revelled  in  the  sunset  colors  behind  the  crest  of  the  charming 


532  SOME  DAY'S    WITH  AMELIE   RIVES. 

hills  at  the  back  of  the  house.  It  was  a  great  wrench  to  leave  thra 
home  for  the  new  one  in  Mobile,  Alabama ;  and,  though  she  grew  to 
be  fondly  attached  to  the  quaint  Southern  town, — making  of  its  trop 
ical  growth,  the  blue  waters  of  its  perfect  bay,  its  Southern  skies  and 
winds  and  bird-notes,  the  Italy  of  her  imagination, — yet  the  long  visits 
to  Virginia  from  early  spring  to  the  lingering  days  of  autumn  were  the 
times  of  her  greatest  joy. 

Like  most  imaginative  children,  Ame'lie  was  morbidly  sensitive. 
Her  fancies  did  not  suit  the  children  of  every-day  life ;  they  misunder 
stood  and  somewhat  dreaded  her;  while  she,  yearning  with  all  the 
strength  of  childish  passion  (and  in  later  life  passion  may  be  different, 
but  not  stronger)  for  love  and  appreciation,  keenly  felt  its  lack,  and, 
thrown  upon  herself  for  her  best  pleasures,  found  the  highest. 

Before  she  could  write  a  sentence  she  had  begun  to  draw,  feeling 
her  way  patiently  through  difficulty  and  ignorance,  until  it  suddenly 
dawned  upon  her  family  that  she  possessed  unusual  talent.  At  an  in 
credibly  early  age  she  became  an  omnivorous  reader,  going  always  in 
stinctively  to  the  highest.  Shakespeare  was  soon  her  daily  and  intimate 
friend  and  companion.  There  is  now,  among  the  exquisite  Editions  dt 
luxe  that  are  constantly  sent  to  the  Shakespearian  scholar,  a  battered, 
well-thumbed,  clearly-printed  volume  of  the  Master's  complete  works. 
It  has  broad  white  margins  pencilled  over  in  a  hand  varying  from  the 
first  childish  scribbliugs  to  the  formed,  distinct,  characteristic  writing 
of  the  woman.  These  comments  always  show  thought,  and  are  often 
luminous.  It  is  a  short  step  from  reading  to  writing,  and  this  step 
AinSlie  quickly  took. 

It  now  became  a  serious  matter  to  coax,  borrow,  or  procure  in  any 
way  paper  to  contain  her  imaginings.  She  dashed  recklessly  into  story, 
drama,  poem,  always  showing  vivid  imagination,  and  a  sort  of  un 
trammelled  strength,  as  one  can  readily  believe  after  reading  the  sonnet 
in  the  Centwy  Magazine  already  alluded  to,  which  was  written  at  the 
age  of  fifteen.  Joined  to  this  maturity  was  a  fund  of  humor,  super 
stition,  and  fancy,  all  of  which  made  her  a  wonderful  and  enchanting 
child  to  older  heads,  though  she  was  never  comprehended  or  greatly 
loved  by  her  child-friends.  There  is  a  pretty  story  told  of  her  tying 
the  legs  of  katydids  to  curling  maple-leaves  by  means  of  her  mother's 
embroidery-silk,  throwing  herself  upon  the  grass,  face  downward,  and, 
after  sending  the  katydids  scuttling  off  with  their  burden,  praying 
that  God  would  send  them  back  with  a  real  fairy  in  the  leaf.  This 
yearning  to  behold  "a  real  fairy"  seems  at  this  period  to  have  been 
the  overweening  desire  of  her  soul.  There  is  another  picture  of  herself 
and  her  Fidus  Achates  sitting  in  the  dim  twilit  woods  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  One  can  hear  the  future  author  of  "  Nurse  Crumpet  tells 
the  Story,"  and  the  intense  tragedy  of  "  Herod  and  Mariarnne,"  yet 
unpublished,  ask,  in  wistful  tones,  "  Do  you  think  if  I  drank  a  whole 
cupful  of  warm  bubbly  blood,  that  I  would  see  a  real  fairy  ?"  can  pic 
ture  the  horrified  face  of  the  little  friend,  and  can  catch  her  answer  after 
a  pause  of  terror,  "  No,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  make  you  very  very  ill." 
We  wonder  if  the  yearning  desire  for  the  unattainable  would  have  car 
ried  the  dauntless  little  soul  as  far  as  this  blood-thirsty  experiment? 


SOME  DAYS    WITH  AMELIE  RIVES.  533 

At  one  time  she  endured  many  pangs  because  of  the  eternal  ex 
clusion  of  the  devil  from  Paradise,  beseeching  earnestly  that  he  might 
be  forgiven.  And  this  strange  child  confessed  herself  afraid  of  noth 
ing  on  earth  so  much  as  the  bloody  marks  on  the  ceiling  of  her  bed 
room,  made  by  a  bird  that  had  fluttered  in,  beating  his  head  against 
the  ceiling  as  he  flew,  and  leaving  its  mark  of  death.  The  child  im 
agined  the  blood  to  have  been  made  by  the  finger  of  the  apparition  in 
Scott's  "  Betrothed." 

She  never  went  to  school,  but  had  governesses,  who  guided  rather 
than  taught.  AVith  a  mind  so  eager  for  knowledge,  there  was  little  fear 
of  idleness. 

Some  one,  in  writing  of  Miss  Rives,  says,  "  She  has  dipped  her  pen 
in  herself;"  and  so  she  has,  but  always  of  herself  in  Virginia.  An 
exquisite  little  essay  appeared,  and  was  lost,  last  summer,  in  the  columns 
of  Harper's  Bazar.  It  was  on  "  The  Lack  of  Humor  in  Great  Hero 
ines,"  and  opens  with  a  sunny  glimpse  of  lawn  and  trees  and  sky, 
vvith  the  writer  lying  along  the  "  lush  grass."  One  can  often  fancy  her 
so  in  the  long  delicious  idle  days  of  summer.  At  another  time  she 
unconsciously  depicts  herself  amid  the  fresh  wet  days  of  autumn,  in  a 
poem  entitled  "  A  Mood."  No  one  knowing  her  could  fail  to  recog 
nize  the  "  bright  hair's  flag,"  and  the  fresh  drenched  glow  of  the  eager 
face. 

Miss  Rives's  prowess  in  horsemanship  has  been  much  commented 
on.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is  an  excellent  horsewoman,  though  not,  as 
the  papers  would  have  us  believe,  in  the  habit  of  jumping  five-barred 
gates  as  a  frequent  amusement.  One  can  see  her  nearly  every  day  in 
the  autumn  and  early  winter  sending  her  large  bay  "  Usurper"  along 
the  picturesque  roads  that  surround  Castle  Hill. 

She  paints  with  the  same  instinctive  power  with  which  she  writes, 
— struggling  on  with  undaunted  courage  through  the  distracting  mazes 
of  color.  As  with  her  writing,  she  bides  her  time  until  fate  carry  her 
abroad,  saying  always,  "  It  is  genius  to  wait."  By  the  way,  "  Fate"  is 
a  word  never  used  by  Miss  Rives.  She  has  been  blessed  from  early 
childhood  with  the  most  unquestioning  love  and  belief  in  the  Maker 
of  all  things. 

In  the  face  of  scurrilous  paragraphs,  which  have  hinted  at  every 
kind  of  belief,  including  disbelief,  it  is  but  just  to  say  that  Miss  Rives 
acknowledges  and  reverences  to  the  utmost  the  God  who  has  so  lavishly 
endued  her  with  great  gifts. 

Perhaps  it  is  trite  to  say  that  every  home  is  stamped  by  the  indi 
vidualities  of  its  occupants,  but  surely  it  is  unusual  to  see  an  old  home 
stead  with  its  associations,  legends,  and  architecture  restamped  by  the 
personality  of  a  young  girl. 

Now  the  room  formerly  known  as  the  "  west  wing"  is  shown  as 
"  Roden's,  the  one  that  Virginia  died  in."  What  has  been  called  the 
"  south  chamber"  for  over  a  hundred  years  is  now  boasted  of  as  the 
room  where  Virginia  spun  in  the  company  of  her  unique  pets.  So 
with  the  "  drawing-room,"  its  pictures  with  their  jewel-like  effect,  the 
old  piano  where  Roden  found  the  country-girl  striking  chords  to  see 
where  the  keys  stuck,  the  dining-room  where  the  heart-sick  girl 


534  SOME  DAYS    WITH  AMELIE  RIVES. 

served  that  dainty  meal  to  Roden  and  his  sweetheart,  when,  overcome 
by  love  and  passion,  she  burst  out  into,  "  I  won't  wait  on  her  !"  On 
my  first  introduction  to  this  temple  of  hospitality  and  plenty,  as  I 
entered,  and  my  host  following  shut  the  door,  I  was  haunted  by  the 
thought  of  Virginia's  love-wounded  eyes,  and  fancied  I  heard  in  the 
drawing  of  the  porti&re  the  swish  of  the  girl's  short  skirts  as  Roden, 
amazed  but  cool,  calmly  closed  the  door. 

There  is  another  room,  still  more  interesting,  filled  with  the  per 
sonality  of  an  imaginative  mind.  It  is,  as  Hawthorne  writes  of  his 
own,  a  haunted  chamber.  Let  us  turn  to  his  words.  "  Here,"  he  says, 
"  I  have  written  many  tales,  many  that  have  been  burned  to  ashes, 
many  that  doubtless  deserved  the  same  fate.  This  claims  to  be  called 
a  haunted  chamber,  for  thousands  upon  thousands  of  visions  have  ap 
peared  to  me  in  it.  If  ever  I  should  have  a  biographer,  he  ought  to 
make  great  mention  of  this  chamber  in  my  memoirs,  because  so  much 
of  my  lonely  youth  was  wasted  here,  and  here  my  mind  arid  character 
were  formed."  It  is  meet,  therefore,  that  those  interested  in  Miss 
Hives,  who  believe  in  her  future  greatness,  should  have  a  glimpse  of 
the  home  where  her  wonderful  stories  were  born,  where  the  vague, 
beautiful  dreams  of  childhood  and  girlhood,  conceived  in  the  hot-house 
of  solitude,  have  blossomed  out  so  generously  into  leaf  and  flower. 

The  white  walls  of  this  girlish,  bower-like  study  are  scattered  over 
with  delicate  blue  flowers,  unobtrusively  assisting  the  effect  of  many 
bold  sketches  in  oil  and  charcoal,  as  well  as  two  magnificent  sea-views 
by  Alexander  Harrison.  Amelie  Rives's  strong  love  of  the  sea  is  one 
of  her  most  pronounced  characteristics.  One,  a  long  narrow  strip  of 
sky  and  sea,  where  the  waves  break  and  curl  in  cringing  eddies  upon 
the  beach,  is  full  of  luminous  violet  light,  and  through  wave  and  foam 
and  cloud  flushes  the  after-glow  of  the  sun.  In  full  serene  and  golden 
beauty,  poised  half-way  in  the  sky,  the  moon  pours  forth  her  beams 
clear  to  the  foreground,  apparently  to  one's  feet.  It  fills  one  in  studying 
it  with  the  grand  and  assured  conviction  that  in  nature  there  can  be  no 
conflict,  that  there  is  "  one  glory  of  the  sun,  another  glory  of  the  moon," 
and  that  each  augments  the  other.  The  second  painting,  perhaps  more 
powerful  in  its  simplicity  of  color  and  swinging  action,  is  a  glimpse  of 
the  ocean  by  night, — as  though,  looking  from  a  port-hole  far  out  on  the 
deep,  one  should  gaze  forth  and  feel  the  depth  and  color  and  mystery 
of  the  sea,  covered  with  its  pall  of  night.  Another  glance,  and  you 
catch  the  swell  of  the  water,  its  silver  light  and  upward-heaving  wave, 
and  even  the  angelic  light  far  off  where  meet  sea  and  sky  cannot  stay 
you  from  your  berth  and  a  horizontal  posture. 

The  tall,  slenderly-panelled  mantel  is  crowded  with  rare  bric-a-brac. 
Over  this  is  draped  a  richly-wrought  blue  silk  and  cloth-of-gold  "  Abba," 
sent  to  Miss  Rives  direct  from  Persia.  Next,  in  charming  contrast, 
hangs  a  mass  of  white  satin  and  tattered  silver  tissue  like  clustered  cob 
webs,  through  which  is  thrust  and  crossed  a  pair  of  tarnished  swords 
drawn  from  their  scabbards.  This  is  a  little  touch  of  womanly  senti 
ment,  and,  unlike  the  cobwebs  which  the  tissue  resembles,  is  a  pleasant 
reminder  of  a  foreign  country  and  splendid  scenes.  The  crumpled, 
snining  masses  are  the  remains  of  the  first  court  dress  worn  by  Mrs. 


SOME  DAYS    WITH  AMELIE  RIVES.  535 

William  Cabell  Rives,  and  the  swords  once  clanked  at  the  side  of  our 
former  minister  at  the  gay  court  of  France. 

The  windows,  draped  in  lightly-embroidered  muslin  and  India  silk 
of  an  indescribable  sea-blue  tone,  brightened  with  bands  of  silver  open 
work,  look  out  upon  the  lawn  described  in  "  Virginia"  as  having  been 
possibly  fashioned  by  the  "  careless  step  of  a  mighty  Titaness  among 
the  flowers  and  shrubbery."  The  charming  brass  bed,  with  its  quaint 
canopy,  is  hung  in  silk  and  muslin  to  match  the  windows,  and  some 
beautiful  pieces  of  enamelled  white  and  brass  furniture,  designed  by 
Miss  Hives,  give  an  air  of  bright  cheerfulness  which  is  accentuated  by 
the  soft  white  fur  rugs  which  lie  about  the  gray-blue  of  the  carpet. 

One  cannot  be  literary  and  orderly,  and  it  follows  that  the  large 
table  of  carved  oak,  supported  on  the  wings  of  four  sphinxes  couchant, 
is  quite  covered  with  books,  papers,  proofs,  pens,— ornamental  and 
useful, — in  fact,  all  the  paraphernalia  that  bespeak  eager  and  constant 
work.  In  unique  contrast  to  this  is  the  dainty  toilet-table,  with  linen 
cover  sprinkled  with  blue  forget-me-nots,  its  large  mirror  framed  in 
carved  white  holly  and  china  painted  with  peach-blossoms,  its  ivory- 
backed  brushes,  etc.,  etc. 

One  would  think  that  many  tables  and  a  private  secretary  were 
needed  to  keep  pace  with  the  correspondence  which  is  growing  to  be  a 
distinct  burden  to  the  young  author.  One  wonders,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  why  people  who  apparently  lose  their  minds  when  they  take  up  a 
pen  should  persist  in  needlessly  wielding  it.  Every  author  is  gratified 
by  words  of  appreciation,  even  helpful  suggestion,  be  the  source  ever  so 
unknown.  But  why,  we  ask,  because  she  writes  for  the  public,  should 
an  inoffensive  creature  be  compelled  to  tolerate  such  communications  as 
the  following? — 

"  Miss  RIVES, — I  do  not  like  '  Virginia  of  Virginia'  at  all.  If 
you  were  writing  for  money  I  could  understand  its  publication,  but,  as 
you  are  not,  I  consider  it  an  unworthy  descent  from  your  former  pub 
lications.  I  send  you  my  good  wishes  for  the  New  Year,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  you  have  not  answered  my  last  letter  of  several  months  ago. 

"  Yours,  very  truly, 


There  are  many  anxious  inquirers,  one  lady  wishing  to  know  what 
foundation  Miss  Rives  had  for  the  assertion  that  Queen  Victoria  ab 
solved  the  Albcmarle  pippin  from  duty.  She  was  roused  to  this  keen 
anxiety  by  an  English  gentleman  who  argued  that  it  was  "  nonsense." 
Miss  Rives  sent  a  polite  rejoinder  to  the  effect  that  she  regretted  she 
had  only  the  word  of  another  "  English  gentleman"  for  the  statement, 
and  that  she  could  see  no  greater  nonsense  in  so  gracious  an  act  of  Eng 
land's  present  queen  than  in  that  of  a  past  one  who  tyrannically  dictated 
the  height  of  the  ruffs  of  her  subjects. 

The  very  brief  period  of  my  stay  at  "  Castle  Hill"  was  happily 
rounded  off  the  evening  before  my  leaving  by  a  memorable  walk  with 
Miss  Rives  and  her  father.  It  was  cold,  still  weather,  and  we  started 
off  in  the  last-falling  flakes  of  a  snow-sprinkle  in  company  with  two 


536  SOME  DAYS    WITH  AMELIE   RIVES. 

fine  dogs,  a  most  human  collie  and  a  Bordelaix  dog, — a  cross  between 
blood-hound  and  bull-dog, — a  faithful,  rather  heavy  animal,  savage 
enough  for  his  mistress  to  carry  with  her  a  stout  dog-whip.  Our 
destination  was  the  ice-house,  where  ice  was  being  hauled  ;  and  very 
pleasant  it  was  to  watch  two  negroes  in  the  great  blue  wagon  shovelling 
in  smooth  flat  cakes  of  ice, — delicious  to  city  ears  the  crunching  of  ice 
on  ice  as  it  fell  in  its  bed  of  sawdust  and  was  broken  and  firmly  packed 
by  other  negroes  in  the  ice-house  with  heavy  iron  sledges.  Here  a  brace 
of  greyhounds  joined  us,  by  name  Tweedledum  and  Tweedledee, — 
diminished,  of  course,  into  "  Dum"  and  "  Dee."  These  pretty  creatures 
bounded  about,  laying  their  muddy  paws  recklessly  over  their  mistress, 
and  enlivened  by  their  pranks  the  walk  to  the  pond.  Here  we  left 
Colonel  Rives  discoursing  with  the  overseer  on  the  ice  question,  and 
walked  briskly  over  the  gray,  wire-grass-grown  fields  through  tall 
bunches  of  broom.  My  eyes  were  on  the  soft  misty  down  of  the 
mountain  before  us,  my  mind  deep  in  absorbing  conversation,  when  we 
suddenly  missed  the  dogs,  to  find  them  flying  after  the  sheep  in  the 
meadow  down  by  the  pond.  Miss  Rives  whistled  and  called  back  the 
collie  and  Turc,  but  Dum  and  Dee,  being  unbroken  pups,  were  worm 
ing  in  and  out  of  the  huddled  sheep,  darting  off  after  frightened  run 
aways.  Miss  Rives  took  an  abrupt  leave  of  me,  and  dashed  over  the 
fields  in  her  mud-stained  corduroy  skirt,  tan  gaiters,  and  sturdy  por 
poise-hide  boots,  hallooing  for  the  greyhounds  and  keeping  the  other 
dogs  to  heel.  She  caught  Dum,  after  lie  had  killed  a  sheep,  and,  hold 
ing  him  to  the  ground,  lashed  him  until  her  arm  dropped.  What  a 
picture  she  made,  with  the  crouching  ^  yelping  hound,  her  face  swept 
with  color  from  brow  to  chin,  the  dark  blue  of  her  Tarn  o'  Shanter 
crushing  the  short  brown-gold  curls  against  her  forehead  !  I  stood  in 
idle  admiration,  mournfully  regretting  my  ability  to  secure  the  picture, 
with  its  setting  of  a  gray  winter  day,  for  the  benefit  of  all  lovers  of 
the  beautiful. 

Meanwhile,  Colonel  Rives  tore  about  the  fields,  waving  his  hat 
frantically  before  him,  shouting  at  the  recreant  Dee  and  ineffectually 
endeavoring  to  corner  her.  Dee  loped  off  cheerfully  with  a  lamb  in 
her  mouth,  followed  full  chase  by  the  top-booted,  weather-stained,  burly 
overseer,  who  finally  frightened  the  dog  into  dropping  her  half-dead 
prey,  and  brought  her  in  triumph  to  her  mistress  for  castigation. 

It  was  all  very  picturesque,  but  returning  homeward  after  the 
excitement  Colonel  Rives  remarked,  with  prosaic  soberness,  that  the 
walk  had  cost  him  just  fifteen  dollars.  For  him  the  adventure  was 
dearly  bought.  For  me  it  remains  a  delightful  picture, — a  finishing 
touch  to  the  charming  impressions  I  gathered  of  this  Southern  girl,  so 
ambitious  that  no  height  seems  too  great  for  her  climbing,  so  careless 
of  what  the  world  of  society  holds  dear,  that  she  is  happier  in  the  open 
meadows  with  her  dogs,  in  her  room  alone  with  her  imaginings,  in  the 
society  of  those  dearest  to  her,  than  in  any  brilliant  gathering  which  die 
might  adorn. 

J.  D.  Hurrell. 


WITH  GAUGE  j  SWALLOW.  637 

WITH  GAUGE  &  SWALLOW* 

NO.    IV. — THE   LETTER   AND   THE   SPIRIT. 

"  OUKRILL,"  said  Mr.  Gauge,  coming  into  the  office  one  day  at 

J3     lunch-time  when  we  three,  Minton,  Burrill,  and  myself,  were 

sitting  round  the  little  enclosure  in  which  stood  the  old  man's  desk, 

"  can  you  lay  your  hands  on  the  papers  in  Ainsworth  vs.  Ainsworth  ?" 

Mr.  Gauge's  voice  always  had  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  it  when  he 
spoke  to  the  old  clerk. 

"  Ainsworth  again  ?  Ainsworth  ?  Of  course  I  can.  The  first 
word  I  ever  wrote  in  this  office — it  was  at  this  very  desk,  too — was  the 
caption  of  that  case.  And,  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  for  saying  it, 
though  it  has  paid  well  enough,  first  and  last,  I  wish  it  had  never 
come  into  the  office  at  all.  Is  there  any  particular  paper  you  want, 
sir  ?" 

"Bring  them  all,  Burrill,"  answered  the  Senior,  with  a  smile. 
"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  lot  at  once." 

"  I  hope  you  will,  sir ;  I  hope  you  will,"  muttered  the  old  man,  as 
he  took  his  cane  and  stumped  across  the  office  to  the  cases  where  the 
files  are  kept. 

"  Failing,  isn't  he  ?"  said  the  lawyer,  as  he  watched  the  old  man's 
unsteady  movements.  "  He  always  did  have  a  spite  against  the  case, 
however." 

He  seated  himself  and  talked  to  Mr.  Minton  while  waiting  for 
Burrill's  return. 

"  Here  they  are,"  said  that  worthy,  producing  a  great  file  of  papers, 
placing  them  on  edge  and  carefully  dusting  them  before  untying  the 
package.  "What  will  you  have,  sir?  I  hope  there  is  nothing  more 
to  be  done  in  the  matter?" 

"Well,  yes,  there  is;  and,  as  I've  got  to  run  over  the  papers,  I 
may  as  well  tell  the  whole  story  to  Minton  as  I  go  along.  We've  had 
a  hard  morning,  and  can  afford  a  little  longer  'nooning*  than  usual. 
I'll  have  my  luncheon  brought  here,  and  we  will  look  over  the  papers 
as  we  eat." 

"  I'd  a  deal  rather  pitch  them  into  the  fire,  sir,"  said  Burrill,  dog 
gedly.  "  It's  the  only  thing  in  the  office  that  never  seemed  exactly 
square." 

"  Pshaw,  Burrill !"  said  Mr.  Gauge ;  "  it'g  not  often  I  tell  a  story 
so  let  me  have  those  two  first  letters  and  start  at  the  beginning,  like  a 
bill  in  Equity.  These  are  the  ones,"  he  added,  as  Burrill  laid  before 
him  two  old  and  yellow  papers  carefully  folded  and  endorsed.  The 
one,  I  could  see,  was  in  a  lady's  fine  Italian  hand ;  the  other  in  the 
clear,  firm  writing  of  one  whom  I  judged  to  be  a  lawyer,  despite  its 
legibility. 

*  Copyright,  1888,  by  E.  K.  TOCBOJUS. 


638  WITH   GAUGE  #  SWALLOW 

"Just  read  them,  won't  you,  Mr.  Fountain?  you  seem  to  be  the 
only  one  who  has  his  mouth  at  liberty.  The  lady's  first,  please." 

I  had  finished  my  lunch  sooner  than  the  others,  and  his  had  just 
been  brought  in. 

So  I  read : 

"  MR.  THEOPHILUS  GAUGE  : 

"  DEAR  SIR, — A  daughter  of  John  Codman  desires  your  assistance. 

"  Respectfully, 

"  LTJELLA  AINSWORTH." 

The  other,  to  the  same  address,  read  as  follows : 

"  DEAR  SIR, — Enclosed  you  will  find  a  line  from  a  client  who  is 
desirous  that  you  should  appear  with  me  in  a  matter  in  which  she  is 
concerned.  She  is  well  able  to  pay  a  reasonable  honorarium,  and  I  am 
instructed,  should  you  be  willing  to  accept  a  retainer,  to  request  you  to 
draw  on  me  at  sight  through  Libbey  &  Co.,  of  Richmond,  who  will 
take  pleasure  in  honoring  your  order.  I  would  advise  that  you  leave 
the  further  consideration  of  the  amount  you  will  charge  for  your  ser 
vices  until  we  have  had  opportunity  to  consult.  Allow  me  to  say 
that  I  most  heartily  second  my  client's  importunity,  and  hope  to  have 
the  honor  of  appearing  in  a  case  of  some  interest  with  one  so  well  and 
favorably  known  to  our  bar. 

"  Very  respectfully, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  EDWIN  R.  BUFORI». 

"  P.S. — I  ought  perhaps  to  have  informed  you  as  to  the  character 
of  the  litigation  in  which  your  assistance  is  desired.  The  case  is  an 
issue  of  devisavit  vel  non,  involving  the  title  to  a  considerable  estate. 
The  question  turns  on  the  validity  of  a  holograph  will  discovered 
nearly  a  year  after  the  alleged  testator's  death,  in  a  desk  which  had 
been  in  possession  of  his  wife,  in  whose  favor  it  is  drawn,  since  his 
disappearance, — for  the  fact  of  death,  though  not  contested,  is  not  sus 
ceptible  of  explicit  proof.  The  case,  under  our  statute,  is  not  without 
difficulty,  though  I  by  no  means  share  the  anxiety  felt  by  the  pro 
ponent.  As  she  has  a  considerable  estate  in  her  own  right,  there  is  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  enjoy  that  security  which  she  has  scriptural 
authority  for  expecting  from  '  a  multitude  of  counsellors.' 

"  The  issue  will  come  on  for  trial  during  the  Fall  Term  of  our  Su 
perior  Court,  which  sits  on  the  sixth  Monday  after  the  first  Monday  in 
September.  Should  it  suit  your  pleasure  to  accept,  I  should  advise 
that  you  reach  here  not  later  than  the  second  day  of  the  term,  and 
earlier  if  consistent  with  other  engagements. 

"E.  R.  B." 

rt  These  letters,"  said  Mr.  Gauge,  reflectively,  "  which  came  in  one 
envelope,  constituted  my  entire  mail  one  day  in  July,  1854.  I  was  a 
young  attorney  then,  with  a  comfortable  den  in  '  The  Swamp,'  and  a 


WITH  GAUGE  $  SWALLOW.  539 

fair  enough  outlook  for  the  future,  but  I  still  got  my  mail  at  the  l  Gen 
eral  Deliver)^'  and  went  for  it  myself.  I  had  a  snug  little  list  of  clients 
who  paid  me  a  moderate  sum  each  year  to  advise  them  about  their  busi 
ness  and  appear  for  them  whenever  they  had  need  of  an  attorney  in  court. 
I  had  held  a  brief  in  several  important  cases,  and  had  led  in  one  notable 
trial  with  a  famous  name  associated  with  me.  Yet  I  did  not  get  as  many 
letters  then  as  my  youngest  daughter  does  now.  So  I  had  plenty  of  time 
to  read  these,  and  I  read  them  over  a  good  many  times  that  day,  though 
I  started  home  fully  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  on  account  of  them. 

"  To  be  employed  in  a  case  standing  for  trial  in  another  State,  and 
especially  in  a  Southern  State,  was  a  very  gratifying  event.  I  had  never 
been  out  of  the  State  on  professional  business,  and  I  regarded  it  as  a 
great  honor  to  hold  such  a  retainer.  Even  hundred-dollar  fees  had 
not  been  abundant  in  my  practice.  I  had  received  one  of  a  thousand, 
but  its  fellow  had  not  yet  made  its  appearance.  But  this  retainer 
meant  more  than  money  to  me  then.  I  should  have  signified  my  ac 
ceptance  by  return  mail  but  for  two  reasons :  I  thought  it  would  not 
be  prudent  to  appear  too  eager,  and  I  wanted  also  to  take  advice  on  the 
matter. 

"  I  used  to  talk  all  important  cases  over  with  Emily — that  is  my 
wife's  name — in  those  days.  She  was  the  only  partner  I  had,  you  see, 
and  I  must  admit  that  I  made  very  few  mistakes  in  following  her 
advice.  I  carried  the  letters  home  and  read  them  to  her  that  night. 
There  were  tears  of  pleasure  in  the  good  woman's  eyes  when  she  fully 
realized  their  import.  You  will  understand  this  better  when  I  tell 
you  the  reason  a  young  lawyer  hardly  able  to  earn  a  living  was  spoken 
of  in  such  complimentary  terms  by  a  practitioner  who,  for  aught  I  knew, 
might  be  double  my  age,  in  another  and  remote  State. 

"  Three  years  before,  John  Codman  had  come  to  my  office  one  morn 
ing,  placed  a  fifty-dollar  bill  on  my  table,  and  asked  me  to  take  steps  to 
sue  out  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  for  a  negro — a  fugitive  from  slavery — 
who  was  confined  in  the  Tombs  to  await  the  conclusion  of  formalities 
for  his  return  to  the  possession  of  his  master.  The  vessel  on  which  he 
was  to  be  shipped  would  sail  in  a  few  hours,  and  no  time  could  be  lost. 
I  knew  John  Codman  to  be  an  active  and  leading  spirit  among  the  Abo 
litionists.  My  father  had  kept  a  station  on  the  Underground  Railroad, 
and  in  my  youth  I  had  more  than  once  been  employed  as  a  medium  of 
communication  between  Codman  in  New  York  and  the  country  parson 
age  to  which  the  human  wares  that  came  to  his  hands  were  consigned. 
To  this  fact,  I  doubt  not,  I  owed  my  selection  for  this  important  task. 
In  those  days  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  get  lawyers  of  established  repute 
to  take  up  the  case  of  a  fugitive  slave.  Of  course  the  one  most  nearly 
concerned  was  never  able  to  pay  a  reasonable  fee  for  such  services,  and 
the  attorney  undertaking  it  was  very  likely  to  be  boycotted  by  his  other 
clients.  At  that  time,  and,  indeed,  up  to  the  very  outbreak  of  the 
civil  war,  the  business-men  of  New  York  were  by  a  large  majority 
pro-slavery  in  their  sentiments.  A  great  portion  of  our  trade  was  with 
the  South,  and  to  be  an  Abolitionist  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  the 
enemy  of  the  city's  prosperity.  But  all  this  time,  however,  the  senti 
ment  of  hostility  to  slavery  was  crystallizing  in  the  popular  mind,  and 


540  WITH  GAUGE  f  SWALLOW. 

the  Abolitionists  were  growing  bolder  in  the  assertion  of  their  peculiar 
views. 

"  I  did  not  dream  of  hesitating,  though  I  thought  it  probable  I 
might  lose  some  of  my  best  clients.  Hardly  stopping  to  pocket  the 
fee,  I  began  the  preparation  of  the  papers  from  memoranda  furnished 
by  Mr.  Codman,  and  before  the  slave  could  be  smuggled  on  board  the 
steamer  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus  was  served  on  those  having  him  in 
custody,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  police  to  prevent  it.  In  fact,  I 
not  only  procured  the  writ,  but  served  it  myself,  and  when  night  came 
had  some  visible  bruises  to  show  for  my  temerity.  The  hearing  was 
set  for  the  next  morning.  The  attempt  at  reclamation  had  become 
known  throughout  the  city,  and  a  mob  gathered  about  the  City  Hall, 
threatening  all  manner  of  evil  against  the  instigators  of  the  movement 
to  deprive  the  master  of  his  property,  which  was  then  considered  just 
about  as  disreputable  as  horse-stealing  is  now  held  to  be  in  Montana. 
Fortunately,  the  Abolitionists  of  that  day,  if  not  lavish  of  funds,  were 
of  indomitable  spirit,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  expose  themselves  to  vio 
lence  in  the  cause  of  personal  liberty. 

"  I  have  seldom  been  in  such  a  notable  company  as  marched  with 
me  through  the  howling  mob  that  morning.  I  had  a  black  eye,  it  is 
true,  but  among  my  body-guard  were  many  whose  names  are  now 
written  among  the  stars, — ministers,  merchants,  the  most  renowned  of 
journalists,  and,  best  of  all,  one  of  the  most  notable  of  my  own  pro 
fession,  who  said,  as  he  linked  his  arm  with  mine, — 

"  '  I  have  entered  an  appearance  with  you  in  this  matter,  and  have 
come  to  sit  beside  you,  not  to  take  any  of  the  credit  of  the  case,  but  to 
help  you  if  you  need  it,  and  to  see  that  you  are  not  overmatched  by 
numbers.' 

"  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  too. 

"  As  we  went  up  the  steps  we  met  the  man  whom  I  regarded  as  my 
best  client.  He  had  not  only  given  me  his  own  business,  but  had  in 
duced  others  to  give  me  theirs.  He  was  in  a  terrible  passion.  Shaking 
his  fist  in  my  face,  he  exclaimed, — 

" '  If  you  go  on  with  this  business,  sir,  you  must  give  up  mine.' 

"  It  is  a  bad  time  to  attempt  to  coerce  a  lawyer  when  he  is  sore 
from  being  hauled  over  the  cobble-stones  in  serving  a  writ  and  the  case 
is  about  to  be  called  which  he  believes  will  give  him  some  revenge  for 
what  he  has  suffered.  There  is  as  much  human  nature  '  to  the  acre ' 
in  the  profession  as  I  have  ever  seen  anywhere ;  and  a  man  is  like  a 
bull  in  that  he  doesn't  scare  worth  a  cent  when  his  blood  is  up. 

"  I  was  never  much  of  a  bully,  and  not  accustomed  to  lose  my 
temper,  at  least  away  from  home.  I  was  able-bodied,  however,  and 
the  day  before  had  shown  that  I  could  use  the  arm  of  flesh  in  an  emer 
gency.  My  client's  tones  and  fists  were  too  much  for  my  equanimity. 

"  '  Go  to with  your  business,'  I  cried, '  but  get  out  of  my  way, 

or  I  will  knock  you  down  !' 

"  I  should  have  done  it,  too.  It  was  a  foolish  speech,  but,  despite 
its  profanity,  the  distinguished  company  with  me  endorsed  it  heartily. 
It  was  only  another  instance  of  substance  being  more  important  than 
form.  The  matter  got  wind  through  their  approval,  especially  that 


WITH  GAUOE  $   SWALLOW.  541 

of  the  journalist,  who  gave  it  a  prominent  place  in  his  account  of  the 
proceedings. 

"  As  you  are  aware,  the  application  was  successful,  the  court  holding 
that  the  master  had  forfeited  his  right  to  compel  the  slave's  return  to 
service  by  having  voluntarily  brought  him  into  a  free  State.  I  received 
a  great  deal  more  credit  than  I  deserved  for  the  part  I  had  taken,  and 
when  I  had  reached  my  office  that  night  I  found  a  check  for  a  thou 
sand  dollars  awaiting  my  arrival  as  a  general  retainer  from  the  heaviest 
house  in  the  country  in  the  particular  line  of  my  irate  client.  I  lost 
some  business,  but  gained  more,  and  I  have  always  looked  upon  this 
case  as  the  real  foundation  of  my  success. 

"  I  naturally  looked  for  wholesale  abuse  on  the  part  of  Southern 
journals  for  the  course  I  had  taken,  and  in  this  I  was  not  disappointed. 
Very  much  to  my  surprise,  however,  I  received  numerous  letters  from 
members  of  the  Southern  bar,  commending  my  fidelity  to  my  client's 
interest,  and  promising  to  remember  it  whenever  they  had  business  re 
quiring  attention  in  the  city.  Among  these  was  one  from  Mr.  Bu- 
ford,  who  was  a  practitioner  of  some  eminence  in  his  State.  Though 
he  was  a  slave-holder  himself,  he  said,  he  recognized  the  fact  that  the 
law  was  the  measure  of  all  right,  and  if  a  man  chose  to  take  his  negro 
to  a  State  where  slavery  was  forbidden,  he  ought  not  to  complain  if  he 
suffered  Joss.  As  to  my  course,  he  said,  it  was  an  attorney's  business 
to  see  that  his  client  had  the  benefit  of  the  law,  whether  he  was  a  white 
man  or  a  '  nigger,'  and  if  any  one  obstructed  him  in  that  duty  he  ought 
to  fight.  I  need  not  say  that  this  letter  gave  me  great  pleasure ;  and 
now  my  generous  correspondent  and  the  daughter  of  my  old  friend 
united  in  inviting  me  to  appear  in  a  case  in  which  the  one  was  engaged 
as  counsel  and  the  other  concerned  as  client. 

"  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  called  to  go  outside  the  State 
on  professional  business,  and  I  was  very  nervous  about  appearing  before 
a  strange  court.  During  the  three  mouths  that  intervened  I  made  a 
most  exhaustive  study  of  every  question  that  can  arise  on  the  issue  of 
devisavit  vel  ?ion,  but  more  especially  of  the  more  limited  field  of  holo 
graph  and  other  exceptional  testamentary  forms.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  when  I  finally  started  for  the  county  of  North  Carolina  in 
which  the  issue  was  to  be  tried,  I  knew  all  there  was  to  be  learned 
from  books  on  the  subject  of  nuncupative  wills. 

"  I  arrived  a  few  days  before  the  opening  of  the  term,  and  found 
my  associate  to  be  a  man  at  least  a  dozen  years  older  than  myself,  of 
slender  form,  with  a  calm  blue  eye,  quiet  almost  reserved  manner,  and 
with  nothing  about  him  to  indicate  the  heartiness  which  he  had  dis 
played  in  his  letters  to  me.  There  was  no  lack  of  cordiality  in  his 
welcome,  but  I  felt  at  once  that  his  appreciation  had  been  won  by  the 
faithfulness  with  which  I  had  served  my  client,  rather  than  from  any 
sympathy  with  the  results  of  my  action.  This  discovery  was  something 
of  a  shock,  since  I  was  at  that  time  one  of  those  absurd  sentimentalists 
who  expect  men  reared  under  the  most  divergent  influences  to  show 
the  same  moral  inclinations.  He  was  a  brave  man,  and  a  lawyer  who 
had  more  than  once  risked  his  life  for  a  client,  and  had  a  natural  ad 
miration  for  one  who  did  likewise.  As  for  the  negro,  he  had  no  sym- 


542  WITH  GAUGE  $   SWALLOW. 

pathy  with  the  opinions  or  prejudices  of  Northern  sentimentalists  in 
regard  to  his  rights  or  his  wrongs.  Such  rights  as  the  law  gave, 
whether  to  slave  or  freeman,  he  would  willingly  aid  to  enforce  ;  but 
beyond  that  he  did  not  go. 

"  This  is  the  account  he  gave  me,  in  clear  cool  tones  and  in  the 
most  lucid  and  succinct  manner,  of  the  case  we  had  to  try.  I  knew 
very  little  of  his  standing  at  the  bar,  but  he  had  not  uttered  a  dozen 
sentences  before  I  was  fully  satisfied  of  three  things :  first,  that  he 
could  not  be  for  any  considerable  period  a  member  of  any  bar  without 
being  one  of  the  leaders  of  it ;  second,  that  he  was  profoundly  inter 
ested  in  this  case,  and  especially  in  our  client ;  and,  third,  that  he  re 
garded  with  a  feeling  very  close  to  resentment  her  persistent  demand 
that  I  should  hold  a  retainer  in  the  case.  I  knew  also  that  I  should 
have  great  difficulty  in  overcoming  this  feeling.  He  was  not  a  man 
accessible  to  flattery,  nor  one  who  would  in  any  manner  aid  me  in 
securing  his  good  will.  He  would  be  polite,  gracious,  and  communica 
tive  as  to  the  facts ;  he  would  inform  me  fully  of  what  had  been  done, 
and  of  the  line  of  action  proposed  by  our  opponents ;  but  of  his  own 
views  and  speculations  he  would  say  nothing.  The  way  to  his  esteem 
lay  wholly  through  his  head. 

"  Luella  Codman  eight  years  before  had  made  her  appearance  in 
Earlshire  County  as  the  wife  of  Major  Matthew  Ainsworth,  ^  gentle 
man  of  liberal  education,  of  fair  estate,  and  of  a  numerous  and  some 
what  aristocratic  family.  "Whence  she  came,  what  were  her  antecedents, 
or  who  were  her  relatives,  no  one  knew.  Mr.  Ainsworth  had  met  her 
in  a  South  Carolina  family  where  she  was  employed  as  governess. 
Fascinated  by  her  beauty  and  attainments,  he  asked  no  questions,  but 
was  told  that  she  was  an  orphan  without  living  relatives  and  had  no 
friends  she  cared  to  remember.  She  was  known  at  that  time  as  Miss 
Luella  Robards. 

"The  major's  family  were  not  long  in  seeking  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  her  past ;  but  if  there  was  any  she  guarded  it  well.  Mr. 
Buford  was  not  even  aware  of  the  contents  of  the  note  he  had  for 
warded  to  me,  and  I  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  enlighten  him  as  to 
her  relation  to  Codman,  who,  by  the  way,  had  died  soon  after  bringing 
me  the  case  on  which  my  notoriety  if  not  my  reputation  as  a  lawyer 
was  based.  My  associate  evidently  expected  me  to  shed  some  light 
upon  the  early  life  of  our  client ;  but  I  contented  myself  with  remark 
ing  that  I  did  not  remember  to  have  ever  met  her. 

"  Major  Ainsworth  would  have  been  entirely  happy  in  his  domestic 
relations  but  for  the  stubborn  refusal  of  his  wife  to  accompany  him  to 
any  place  of  public  resort.  In  the  county  she  was  a  belle  of  ac 
knowledged  pre-eminence,  but  out  of  it  she  never  stirred.  She  did 
not  claim  any  fondness  for  domestic  vocations,  but  very  soon  assumed 
with  her  husband's  full  assent  the  management  of  his  estate,  very 
greatly  to  the  advantage  of  his  exchequer.  The  acreage  in  cultivation 
more  rapidly  extended,  improved  methods  were  adopted,  and  new 
economies  inaugurated.  Year  by  year  more  land  was  purchased  and 
title  taken  in  her  name,  the  major  boastfully  asserting  that  it  represented 
her  earnings.  One  thing  was  noticeable :  no  slave  was  permitted  to  till 


WITH  GAUGE  $  SWALLOW.  543 

the  lands  thus  acquired,  which  were  cultivated  under  her  supervision 
either  by  '  croppers'  or  '  hirelings/ — white  people  who  worked  on  shares 
or  for  wages.  Yet  all  prospered,  so  that  after  six  years  the  major 
came  to  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  region. 
Withal,  his  wife  was  a  woman  of  spirit,  of  varied  acquirements,  a 
dashing  horsewoman,  and  a  practised  shot.  Her  devotion  to  her  hus 
band  was  notable  and  unwavering.  To  say  that  she  was  blind  to  his 
faults — or  fault,  rather,  since  he  had  but  one — would  not  express  the 
half  of  it.  She  demanded  that  every  one  else  should  'be  blind  too. 
A  man  who  happened  to  make  an  allusion  to  his  inebriety  in  her  pres 
ence  was  compelled  to  apologize  at  the  muzzle  of  her  pistol.  The 
result  was  the  entire  reformation  of  her  husband,  whose  infatuation  for 
her  was  redoubled  by  this  fact.  There  was  but  one  fly  in  the  precious 
ointment  of  his  domestic  life :  he  was  convinced  that  his  wife  had  a 
secret  which  gave  her  great  unhappiness,  anil  he  determined  to  discover 
its  nature  and  remove  her  sorrow.  Unfortunately,  he  kept  this  purpose 
from  her.  He  thought  her  sorrow  was  in  some  manner  connected  with 
her  past  life,  but  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that  it  could  be  anything 
discreditable  to  her. 

"  He  communicated  his  purpose  to  Mr.  Buford,  who  tried  to 
dissuade  him  from  it,  but  in  vain.  He  had  somehow  gotten  a  clue 
to  her  past,  which  he  determined  to  follow,  and,  having  made  a  will 
devising  everything  to  his  wife,  he  went  North  and  after  a  few  months 
wholly  disappeared.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been  on  a  steamer  that 
was  lost  on  Lake  Michigan  about  that  time,  but  of  this  there  was  no 
positive  proof.  He  was  known  to  have  been  in  Chicago  the  week  tafore, 
and  had  an  engagement  in  New  York  the  week  after,  which  was  never 
filled.  More  than  three  years  had  elapsed  since  his  disappearance. 
His  wife  had  remained  in  possession  of  his  estate,  because  it  was  gen 
erally  understood  that  a  will  had  been  made  in  her  favor.  After  a 
while  it  was  noised  about  that  there  was  no  will ;  and  it  was  only 
when  steps  were  taken  by  the  heirs  to  have  an  administrator  appointed 
that  the  will  then  in  controversy  was  offered  for  probate. 

"  The  rumor  that  she  intended  to  remove  the  slaves  to  a  free  State 
and  give  them  their  liberty  no  doubt  hastened  the  action  of  the  heirs, — 
such  a  rumor  being,  as  Mr.  Buford  remarked,  regarded  as  little  less  than 
a  declaration  of  war  itself.  How  the  rumor  arose  he  was  unable  to 
conceive.  That  she  had  such  a  purpose  he  did  not  doubt.  A  peculiar 
ity  of  her  nature  seemed  to  be  an  instinctive  and  ineradicable  aversion 
to  this  institution,  which  was  manifested  more  by  what  she  did  not  say 
than  by  any  words  she  was  ever  known  to  utter.  While  she  no  doubt 
entertained  this  feeling,  he  thought  her  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
have  given  any  hint  of  her  design.  But  for  some  investments  she  had 
made,  he  would  never  have  suspected  it  himself.  In  short,  I  gathered 
from  him  that  our  client  was  not  one  who  asked  advice  as  to  what  she 
should  do,  but  simply  required  a  lawyer's  aid  to  carry  her  designs  into 
effect  or  protect  her  against  encroachments  from  others. 

"  I  was  quite  prepared,  therefore,  as  our  conversation  progressed,  to 
learn  that  the  story  of  the  will  was  a  curious  one. 

"'As  I  have  told  you/  said  Mr.  Buford,  'I  had  drawn  Major 
VOL.  XL!.— 35 


544  WITH  GAUGE  $  SWALLOW. 

Ainsworth's  will,  according  to  bis  instructions,  some  little  time  before 
his  departure,  and  it  was  witnessed  by  two  of  my  neighbors.  When 
it  came  to  be  generally  believed  that  he  was  dead,  his  wife  sent  for  me 
to  come  to  her  house  and  requested  me  to  act  as  her  legal  advisor.  She 
did  not  share  the  general  belief  in  her  husband's  death,  but  gave  no 
reason  for  disbelieving,  and  remarked  that  she  had  thought  it  best  not 
to  say  so  to  any  one  else,  and  had  only  manifested  her  incredulity  by 
declining  to  wear  mourning  or  join  in  the  request  for  funeral  services 
in  his  memory. 

" '  These  facts  would  probably  have  attracted  little  attention  in  * 
Northern  community,'  continued  Mr.  Buford,  with  just  the  hint  of  a 
sneer  in  his  calm  even  tones  and  clear  blue  eyes,  '  but  with  our  country 
people  a  funeral  is  the  most  important  event  of  life,  and  mourning  a 
formality  the  omission  of  which  is  an  evidence  of  immeasurable 
depravity. 

"  '  I  found  the  premises  in  the  most  perfect  order.  The  master's 
absence  had  made  no  difference  with  its  condition,  as  indeed  there  was 
no  reason  why  it  should.  Within  the  house  everything  showed  the 
most  scrupulous  regard  for  his  memory.  His  saddles,  spurs,  whips, 
and  guns  were  scattered  about  the  room  adjoining  her  bedchamber, 
which  had  been  the  one  he  occupied,  just  as  he  had  left  them.  This 
room  she  permitted  no  one  else  to  enter,  dusting  and  arranging  it  with 
her  own  hands.  The  only  alteration  she  had  made  was  to  hang  her 
husband's  portrait  above  his  desk.  This  latter  she  informed  me  that 
she  had  opened  but  once  or  twice  since  his  departure,  when  it  became 
necessary  to  procure  some  papers  from  it.  The  key  had  always  been 
kept  in  her  room,  hanging  at  the  side  of  her  own  little  desk,  of  which 
she  had  always  exclusive  control.  The  door  from  the  major's  room 
into  the  "  living-"  or  sitting-room  had  been  closed  ever  since  his  de 
parture,  so  that  the  only  means  of  access  to  it  lay  through  the  wife's 
room.  This  had  always  been  customary  during  his  absence.  In  a 
double  drawer  of  this  desk  I  found  the  will.  It  was  the  one  I  had 
drawn  and  witnessed  by  my  neighbors.  I  glanced  it  over,  noting  these 
facts,  but  did  not  read  it  carefully.  The  other  compartment  of  the 
drawer  was  filled,  as  a  cursory  examination  revealed,  with  bundles  of 
receipts,  bills  of  lading,  returns  from  his  factors,  and  other  matters  of 
like  character. 

"  '  I  advised  an  immediate  probate  of  the  will,  but  she  seemed  dis 
inclined  to  accept  the  suggestion.  From  that  time  her  business  has 
passed  through  my  hands  and  I  have  been  her  constant  adviser.  I 
must  admit  that  she  has  been  a  model  client,  listening  patiently  to  my 
suggestions,  but  always  deciding  for  herself. 

"  { When  the  heirs  began  to  move  for  the  appointment  of  an  admin 
istrator,  I  wrote  to  her  that  it  was  time  the  will  was  offered  for  pro 
bate.  In  response  she  came  and  informed  me  that  on  going  to  get  the 
will  it  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  declared  that  she  had  not  seen 
it  nor  indeed  opened  the  desk  at  all  since  we  had  seen  it  together.  She 
averred  also,  much  to  my  surprise,  that  she  had  never  read  the  will, 
and  knew  nothing  of  its  provisions  beyond  the  fact  that  her  husband 
had  informed  her  that  he  had  made  a  will  in  her  favor.  I  had  no  copy 


WITH  GAUGE  j   SWALLOW.  545 

oi  it,  and  so  could  not  set  it  up  as  a  lost  testament.  Though  I  vaguely 
remembered  its  provisions,  I  could  not  repnxluce  its  language,  which 
was  peculiar,  and  to  me  in  some  respects  obscure,  in  the  parts  dictated 
by  the  husband.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  except  to  set  forth 
these  facts  in  an  affidavit  and  ask  a  continuance  of  the  petition  for  an 
administrator  until  further  search  should  be  made  for  the  lost  instru 
ment.  This  was  the  more  readily  granted  as  it  was  universally  con 
ceded  that  the  estate  was  in  good  hands,  the  court  only  enjoining  her 
from  removing  any  of  the  slaves  from  its  jurisdiction  and  requiring  her 
to  make  report  of  the  personalty. 

"  '  Some  weeks  afterwards  Mrs.  Ainsworth  came  to  my  .office,  and, 
after  making  some  inquiries  as  to  what  was  necessary  to  constitute  a 
will,  produced  several  sheets  of  paper  fastened  together  in  a  manner 
somewhat  peculiar  to  her  husband,  by  turning  down  the  upper  left- 
hand  corner  and  sticking  a  pin  through  the  folded  part.  These 
sheets  were  numbered  at  the  top,  each  page  signed  at  the  bottom,  dated 
a  few  days  after  the  will  I  had  drawn,  and  were  all  in  the  unmistakable 
handwriting  of  the  testator.  This  handwriting,  it  may  be  remarked, 
was  the  most  striking  I  remember  ever  to  have  seen, — the  contracted 
letters  almost  as  long  as  the  extended  ones,  and  the  whole  utterly  with 
out  shade.  He  usually  wrote  on  unruled  paper,  yet  the  lines  were  as 
straight  as  if  laid  off  with  a  rule.  Where  Matt  Ainsworth  acquired 
this  most  difficult  and  almost  illegible  hand  nobody  knew ;  that  he  was 
very  proud  of  it  every  one  in  this  region  was  well  aware. 

" '  The  provisions  of  this  remarkable  testament  were  identical,  so 
far  as  I  could  recall  them,  with  the  one  I  had  drawn.  Mrs.  Ainsworth's 
story  of  its  discovery  was  that  her  husband  appeared  to  her  in  a  dream 
and  directed  her  to  search  in  the  left-hand  portion  of  the  drawer  in 
which  the  other  will  had  been  deposited.  There,  under  the  bundles  of 
receipts  and  other  memoranda  of  the  business  of  passing  previous 
years,  she  had  found  the  sheets  she  had  brought  to  me. 

"  '  This  is  the  will  we  have  to  defend.  There  is  no  doubt  about  ite 
being  of  later  date  than  the  one  which  was  abstracted  from  the  desk, 
of  which  no  trace  has  been  found.  How  and  by  whom  it  was  taken  is 
a  mystery.  I  was  inclined  to  suspect  our  client,  but  am  at  a  loss  foi 
a  motive — at  least  a  probable  motive — for  such  an  act.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  will  be  difficult  to  supply  a  motive  for  this  will.  It  is  all 
right  in  form.  Ainsworth  could  have  taken  no  better  way  to  make  it 
incontestable.  There  has  been  talk  about  its  being  a  forgery,  and  they 
may  attempt  some  such  tactics  on  the  trial.  This  will  not  be  dangerous. 
The  chief  difficulty  will  be  to  account  for  its  existence  at  all,  and  to 
show  that  it  was  found  with  the  decedent's  valuable  papers  as  the  statute 
requires.  For  this  Mrs.  Ainsworth  is  our  only  witness ;  and  I  confess  I 
am  afraid  of  the  result.' 

" '  May  not  Mr.  Ainsworth  have  feared  the  loss  of  the  attested  will 
and  provided  this  as  a  safeguard  ?'  I  asked. 

" t  That,  of  course,  is  the  hypothesis  we  must  adopt,'  he  answered, 
quietly.  *  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  rather  strained  ?' 

" '  Perhaps ;  but  what  other  reason  could  there  have  been  ?  I  un 
derstand  you  to  say  the  provisions  of  the  two  were  the  same  ?' 


546  WITH  GAUGE   j-   SWALLOW. 

"  '  So  far  as  I  can  remember,  they  contained  identically  the  same  be 
quests.  Yet  I  am  positive  there  is  a  difference  in  the  phraseology  which 
would  prevent  me  from  testifying  that  they  were  identical.  You  un 
derstand?' 

"  '  You  will  not  be  a  witness,  then  ?' 

"  '  Not  unless  "  our  friends  the  enemy"  put  me  on  the  stand.' 

"  There  was  a  flash  in  his  steel-blue  eyes  that  augured  ill  for  them 
if  they  did. 

"  '  What  was  the  difference  you  refer  to  ?' 

" '  The  will  I  drew  described  the  principal  devisee  simply  as  his 
wife,  Luella  Robards  Ainsworth.  In  the  holograph  she  is  described 
as  "  Luella  Ainsworth,  once  known  as  Luella  Robards,  esteemed  and 
loved  as  my  faithful  wife." ' 

"  My  associate  eyed  me  keenly  as  he  repeated  these  words.  He 
evidently  expected  me  to  make  some  deduction  which  he  hesitated  to 
put  into  words. 

"  *  It  seems  to  be  a  somewhat  fuller  description,'  I  said,  after  a 
moment's  thought. 

" f  Fuller !'  he  repeated,  with  an  added  suaveness  in  his  silvery 
tones,  which  I  learned  afterwards  always  marked  a  peculiarly  annihi 
lating  thrust  at  the  man  who  happened  to  be  at  his  mercy.  c  Does  it  not 
occur  to  you  that  it  is  a  totally  different  description  ?' 

"'How  so?'  I  asked. 

" '  "  My  dear  wife  Luella,"  etc.,  and  "  Luella,"  etc.,  "  esteemed  as 
a  wife" ' 

"  His  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  the  words  fell  from  his  lips  in  soft 
musical  accents,  with  an  indescribable  emphasis  on  the  contrasted  terms. 
I  started  in  surprise  as  I  grasped  his  meaning.  This  smooth-mannered 
man  was  one  whose  steel-blue  eye  caught  everything  and  whose  subtle 
brain  permitted  not  even  the  slightest  change  of  phraseology  to  pa»s 
unnoticed. 

" '  And  you  think ?'  I  asked. 

"'I  think,'  he  interrupted,  with  a  peculiar  meaning  in  his  tone, 
t  that  under  the  holograph  our  client  Luella  would  take  whatever  cog 
nomen  she  is  legally  entitled  to  wear.  Is  not  that  your  opinion  ?' 

"  There  was  a  grave  irony  in  his  tone  that  was  indescribably  amus 
ing,  and  I  answered  with  a  hearty  laugh,  but  said  nothing.  He  smiled 
pleasantly,  and  I  could  see  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  both  my  laugh 
and  my  silence  had  been  well-timed.  He  evidently  thought  I  knew 
more  than  I  chose  to  tell  and  was  not  likely  to  be  betrayed  into  indis 
creet  speculation. 

"  On  Monday  the  court  sat.  It  was  an  old-time  court-house,  dating 
back  almost  to  the  Revolution.  The  judge's  bench  ran  across  the  gable 
well  up  towards  the  ceiling,  and  was  approached  by  a  winding  stairway 
at  each  end.  The  bar  sat  within  a  semicircular  railing  in  front,  flanked 
on  one  side  by  the  clerk's  desk,  on  the  other  by  the  jury-box.  Every 
lawyer  as  he  entered  made  a  profound  obeisance  to  the  judge,  which 
was  gravely  acknowledged  by  that  dignitary.  Mr.  Buford  introduced 
me  first  to  the  court  and  then  to  each  member  of  the  bar.  The  latter 
were  a  splendid  company  of  gentlemen,  courteous,  unaffected,  and  of 


WITH  GAUGE  f  SWALLOW.  647 

marked  individuality  of  character.  I  soon  found  myself  at  home 
among  them,  despite  the  strange  surroundings.  The  carved  wooden 
seats  that  ran  around  the  enclosure  in  which  the  bar  sat,  the  floor 
covered  with  saw-dust,  boxes  half  a  yard  square  filled  with  the  same 
and  used  as  spittoons,  the  bucket  of  water  standing  upon  the  stove  with 
a  gourd  floating  on  its  surface,  the  people  crowding  behind  the  bar, 
unseated  except  a  few  on  the  wooden  bench  that  ran  around  the  side, 
the  judge  peering  down  from  his  perch  just  below  the  ceiling,  the 
curious  juxtaposition  of  order  and  disorder,  courtesy  and  grime,  seemed 
very  odd  to  me,  but  I  soon  found  myself  at  home  with  the  bright  keen 
intellects  of  the  bar.  I  knew  Mr.  Buford  was  watching  me,  and  was 
conscious  that  he  was  gratified  at  the  impression  I  made  upon  his 
brethren.  He  was  no  doubt  afraid  that  I  might '  put  on  airs,'  which  is 
so  frequent  a  fault  with  the  city  lawyer  of  the  North  when  he  con 
descends  to  enlighten  the  purlieus  of  the  country  court-house.  To  such 
assumption  the  Southern  bar  are  especially  sensitive,  as  well  they  may 
be,  since  it  is  doubtful  if  the  bar  of  any  Northern  city  can  compare 
in  thoroughness  of  preparation,  or  depth  and  variety  of  attainment, 
with  the  average  Southern  practitioners.  I  was  spared  from  giving 
offence  by  a  sincere  admiration  for  the  skill  and  learning  displayed 
in  the  conduct  of  the  business  of  the  court.  I  can  honestly  say  I  never 
saw  as  many  cases  disposed  of  with  so  little  fuss  in  any  other  court  I 
ever  attended. 

"  During  that  day  I  examined  the  will  on  file  in  the  clerk's  office, 
and  took  a  copy.  The  issue  had  been  transferred  to  the  Superior  Court 
for  trial  by  the  judge  and  a  jury.  I  met  our  client,  too,  and  was  cer 
tainly  much  impressed  by  her  appearance.  She  was  a  slight  woman, 
somewhere  about  thirty,  or  perhaps  thirty-five,  with  gray  eyes  which 
seemed  ever  to  be  filled  with  a  calm  surprise,  and  a  mouth  rather  wide 
but  having  lips  so  full  and  so  finely  curved  that  one  easily  forgot  its 
offence  against  perfect  symmetry.  She  said  little,  met  every  one's 
glances,  and,  without  making  any  appeal,  inclined  one  unconsciously  in 
her  favor.  Assuring  her  of  the  pleasure  I  felt  in  serving  a  daughter 
of  John  Codman,  she  replied,  with  quiet  confidence,  as  her  great  eyes 
<ook  me  in  from  top  to  toe, — 

"  '  He  was  a  good  judge  of  a  man.' 

"  That  was  all,  and,  though  her  look  seemed  to  confirm  her  father  s 
judgment,  I  never  felt  less  flattered  in  my  life.  There  was  none  of  the 
air  of  compliment  about  it.  It  was  simply  a  statement  that  I  was 
engaged  for  service,  not  from  sentiment. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  have  felt  piqued  by  this  reply,  but  I 
certainly  did.  I  could  see  that  it  attracted  Mr.  JBuford's  attention,  and 
he  glanced  at  me  with  a  look  of  quiet  inquiry,  as  if  taking  stock  of  my 
value.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  surprised  to  see  us  meet  as  entire 
strangers  and  to  learn  that  in  retaining  me  she  had  been  controlled  by 
judgment  rather  than  impulse. 

"  Little  was  said  about  the  case.  The  trial  was  set  for  Thursday 
morning,  and  when  Mr.  Buford  said,  inquiringly,  'I  suppose  we  arc 
ready?'  I  noticed  that  her  face  took  on  a  thoughtful  look  and  her 
mouth  assumed  a  firmer  expression  as  she  replied, — 


548  WITH  GAUGE  £   SWALLOW. 

'* l  So  far  as  I  know,  we  are.' 

"  An  hour  later  a  note  written  in  a  light  nervous  hand  was  brought, 
asking  me  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Ainsworth  the  next  evening,  if  conve 
nient.  I  handed  it  to  Mr.  Buford. 

" '  WTell/  said  he,  with  a  smile,  'you  will  go,  of  course?' 

"  *  I  think  not/  I  answered. 

" '  Why  ?  She  evidently  desires  to  consult  with  you  before  the 
trial.' 

"  '  Probably  ;  but  I  have  possessed  myself  of  your  views  ;  I  could 
learn  nothing  more  of  value;  and  it  is  not  well  that  we  should  enter 
upon  the  trial  with  conflicting  hypotheses  or  a  half-independent  plan 
of  action.' 

" '  But  perhaps  she  desires  to  consult  you  upon  other  matters, — to 
talk  of  her  father,  whom  you  seem  to  have  known.' 

"  '  That  can  wait.' 

"  The  matter  was  not  mentioned  again,  and  we  had  no  more  conver 
sation  upon  the  case.  During  the  next  two  days  I  consulted  our  wit 
nesses  and  briefed  their  evidence,  so  that  by  the  time  the  case  was  called 
I  felt  that  I  thoroughly  understood  its  strength  and  weakness. 

"  I  had  already  learned  that  my  associate  was  one  of  the  most  noted 
and  successful  trial-lawyers  of  the  State.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  I  never 
excelled  in  this  direction  and  never  hoped  to  has  enabled  me  to  appre 
ciate  this  attribute  all  the  more  highly  in  others.  When  the  judge 
called  '  Ainsworth  vs.  Ainsworth'  at  ten  o'clock  on  Thursday  morning, 
Mr.  Buford  was  at  once  transformed  from  the  smiling  easy  companion 
into  the  alert  and  eager  gladiator. 

" '  That  is  our  case,  Mr.  Gauge/  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  his 
delight  in  the  coming  conflict. 

"  We  took  our  places  opposite  the  jury-box,  our  client  next  to  Mr. 
Buford,  while  I  sat  in  a  chair  at  the  end  of  the  table,  so  that  she  had 
a  counsellor  on  either  hand,  while  it  was  yet  easy  for  us  to  consult  to 
gether  by  merely  leaning  forward  across  the  corner  of  the  table.  Our 
opponents  sat  at  my  left,  directly  in  front  of  Mr.  Buford,  who  made  it 
a  rule  never  to  fight  an  enemy  except  at  point-blank  range.  Our  wit 
nesses  were  called  and  answered,  and  we  announced  that  the  proponent 
was  ready  to  proceed.  The  counsel  for  the  contestants  did  the  same ; 
the  jury  was  impanelled,  and  Mr.  Buford  opened  with  one  of  the  most 
lucid  and  masterly  statements  I  ever  heard.  Our  witnesses  were  there 
and  sworn,  and  my  associate  said, — 

" '  Our  first  piece  of  evidence,  if  your  honor  please,  will  be  the 
alleged  holograph  itself.  Will  you  let  me  have  it,  Mr.  Clerk  ?' 

"  '  It  is  among  the  papers/  said  that  functionary,  pointing  to  the 
bundle  on  our  table. 

"  *  I  think  not/  said  Mr.  Buford,  running  over  the  file. 

"  Then  the  clerk  came  and  examined  the  papers  carefully,  turning 
inquiringly  to  the  counsel  for  the  contestants  when  he  failed  to  find 
the  required  document. 

" '  None  of  as  have  it/  said  the  senior  of  our  opponents,  with 
urbane  placidity. 

"Then  the  clerk  made  further  search  among  the  papers  in   hia 


WITH  GAUGE   $  SWALLOW.  549 

pockets,  and  was  rebuked  by  the  court  for  leaving  such  an  important 
document  among  the  ordinary  files. 

"'You  had  better  introduce  a  copy  and  proceed,'  said  the  judge. 
'  The  original  will  probably  turn  up  before  the  evidence  is  all  in.' 

"  The  defendants,  of  course,  objected,  and  Mr.  Buford  seemed  for 
once  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 

" '  If  your  honor  please '  he  began,  with  some  hesitation. 

"  I  reached  across  and  touched  his  hand.  He  bent  towards  me, 
and  I  said, — 

" '  I  have  a  copy  which  I  took  the  trouble  to  verify.' 

"  A  look  of  relief  came  into  his  eyes,  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  calm, 
colorless  face  betrayed  his  feeling. 

" '  That  is  what  I  was  about  to  ask  permission  to  do,'  he  con 
tinued,  without  change  of  tone.  '  Will  your  honor  swear  the  clerk  ?' 

"  This  was  done,  and,  having  proved  by  the  clerk  and  his  deputy 
that  a  paper-writing  purporting  to  be  the  last  will  and  testameut  of 
Matthew  Ainsworth  had  been  duly  filed,  and  the  copy  I  produced 
having  been  duly  verified,  we  asked  leave  to  set  it  up  as  a  lost  will. 

"  The  defendant's  counsel  again  objected,  but  the  court  permitted  us 
to  proceed.  The  witnesses  on  both  sides  had  examined  the  original,  and 
all  but  one  or  two  pronounced  it  wholly  in  the  testator's  handwriting. 
These,  not  without  apparent  misgiving,  inclined  to  a  contrary  opinion. 
The  chief  controversy  was  as  to  the  place  where  it  was  found,  the 
time  of  finding,  and  the  disappearance  of  the  former  will.  The  ex 
amination  of  the  proponent  was  very  severe. 

"  She  was  asked  in  regard  to  her  past  life,  and  frankly  admitted 
that  she  had  quarrelled  with  her  father  while  yet  a  school-girl,  had  run 
away  from  home,  and  had  assumed  the  name  of  Robards  to  prevent 
detection.  She  had  supported  herself  by  teaching  in  various  localities, 
and  had  finally  come  South  and  taught  in  several  families  before  meet 
ing  Mr.  Ainsworth.  Her  past  had  not  been  an  easy  or  a  pleasant  one, 
and  she  disliked  anything  that  reminded  her  of  it.  She  had  been  very 
happy  with  her  husband.  Their  tastes  had  not  always  been  the  same, 
but  she  had  derived  th**  utmost  enjoyment  from  co-operating  with  him 
and  carrying  out  his  purposes.  She  thought  no  one  would  question 
that  she  had  been  of  use  to  him ;  and  for  her  part  she  found  it  impos 
sible  to  realize  that  he  was  dead:  in  fact,  she  could  not  help  thinking 
of  him  as  alive.  She  had  received  several  letters  from  him  after  his 
departure,  but  no  communications  by  mail  since  the  accident  to  the 
steamer.  The  last  was  from  Chicago.  She  had  them  all,  if  they 
wished  to  examine  them.  She  had  not  shown  them  to  her  counsel, 
not  supposing  it  necessary.  Her  husband  had  frequently  expressed  an 
intention  to  remove  to  the  North.  He  was  ambitious  to  engage  in  the 
struggle  for  wealth  at  the  West.  In  his  last  letter  he  had  declared  his 
intention  to  free  his  slaves,  provide  for  their  future,  and,  with  what 
might  be  left  of  his  estate,  engage  in  business  in  Chicago.  She  had 
never  encouraged  this  purpose.  She  was  quite  contented  to  live  as 
they  had  done,  not  feeling  like  encouraging  him  to  exchange  a  cer 
tainty  for  an  uncertainty.  In  regard  to  the  loss  of  the  will  she  knew 
nothing.  She  had  seen  it  for  a  moment,  in  my  hands  or  those  of  the 


650  WITH   GAUGE   4-  SWALLOW. 

deputy  clerk,  on  Monday  of  the  term.  We  were  reading,  at  least  one 
was  reading, — comparing  it  with  a  copy,  she  thought.  She  could  not 
remember  which  had  the  will.  She  had  not  seen  it  since.  In  reply  to 
a  question,  she  said  she  thought  her  husband  relied  greatly  upon  her 
judgment :  she  did  not  recollect  that  he  had  ever  neglected  her  advice 
in  any  important  matter. 

"  On  the  whole,  her  testimony  and  demeanor  were  simply  perfect. 
She  disarmed  every  prejudice,  and  exhibited  the  utmost  frankness.  So 
fine  a  combination  of  shrewdness  and  candor  I  had  never  seen.  She 
seemed  to  have  divined  exactly  what  would  benefit  her  case,  and  set  it 
forth  in  the  most  artless  and  natural  manner  imaginable.  I  felt  I  had 
wronged  her  by  my  suspicion,  and  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  ex 
press  my  admiration  for  her.  Mr.  Buford  did  not  attempt  to  conceal 
his.  She  did  not  hesitate,  nor  involve  herself  in  any  inconsistency. 
The  result  was  that  the  court  held  with  us  as  to  the  sufficiency  of  the 
depository, — the  only  question  in  the  case  which  I  argued, — and  the 
jury  decided  in  our  favor  all  the  facts  necessary  to  support  the  holo 
graph. 

"  The  next  day  I  visited  our  client,  took  her  instructions  as  to  certain 
matters  of  business,  and,  with  several  others,  passed  the  night  at  her 
house,  whence  it  had  been  arranged  that  a  hunting-party  should  start 
on  the  morrow.  I  was  at  first  given  one  of  the  great  front  rooms,  but 
after  the  other  guests  began  to  arrive  was  asked  by  the  hostess  herself 
if  I  would  be  willing  to  occupy  a  chamber  which  was  just  above  that 
known  as  her  husband's  room,  which  Mr.  Buford  had  described  to 
me.  She  explained,  with  apparent  candor,  that  no  one  had  occupied  it 
since  her  husband's  disappearance,  and  she  did  not  like  to  give  it  to  a 
stranger. 

(t  The  room  I  was  to  occupy  was  in  a  part  of  the  great  country- 
house  which  had  been  added  to  the  original  structure  by,  the  recent 
owner  after  his  marriage.  It  was  somewhat  more  ornate  than  the  older 
portion,  but  by  no  means  as  well  constructed.  The  floor,  as  was  cus 
tomary  in  that  region,  was  uncarpeted,  and  there  were  yawning  crevices 
beneath  the  base-boards,  especially  at  the  rear,  caused  by  the  sinking 
of  the  foundation,  and  also  about  the  hearth  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 

"  We  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,  the  hostess  and  some  ladies  of 
the  remoter  branches  of  her  husband's  family — who  adhered  to  her 
cause  apparently  because  of  her  devotion  to  his  memory,  but  in  fact 
because  the  setting  aside  of  the  will  would  benefit  others  rather  than 
themselves — contributing  not  a  little  to  our  enjoyment.  Mr.  Buford 
arrived  during  the  evening,  and,  to  my  surprise,  was  assigned  with 
another  gentleman  to  the  room  I  had  at  first  occupied. 

"  It  was  not  late  when  we  retired,  for  the  horn  was  to  sound  early  in 
the  morning.  I  fell  asleep  at  once,  and  slept  quietly  until  awakened  by 
voices  in  the  room  below, — one  apparently  that  of  a  man,  the  other  un 
mistakably  that  of  a  woman.  I  did  not  mean  to  listen  ;  indeed,  there 
was  no  need  to  do  so  to  learn  that  the  latter  was  unquestionably  the 
voice  of  my  client.  She  spoke  without  any  restraint,  clearly  and  dis 
tinctly, — so  clearly,  indeed,  that  I  first  thought  she  must  be  in  the  room 
where  I  was.  The  man's  voice  was  curiously  rnuftled  and  indistinct. 


WITH   GAUGE   4-   SWALLOW.  551 

I  was  sure  it  was  not  one  I  knew,  and  I  became  strangely  confused  as  I 
thought  I  might  be  acting  the  spy  upon  a  midnight  meeting  of  a  char 
acter  by  no  means  creditable  to  the  parties  or  listeners.  Then  it  flashed 
upon  me  that  this  woman  whom  I  had  all  along  distrusted  had  placed 
me  here  in  order  that  I  might  be  a  witness  for  her  and  against  her  par 
amour.  This  I  thought  was  the  reason  she  spoke  so  loud,  while  her 
companion  took  such  pains  to  muffle  his  tones. 

"  I  was  not  allowed  any  opportunity  to  doubt  the  character  of  the 
clandestine  meeting  to  which  I  was  an  unwilling  listener.  Her  conver 
sation  was  plentifully  garnished  with  words  of  extravagant  endearment. 
There  was  laughter,  too,  the  sweet  contented  laughter  of  a  loving 
woman, — the  man  did  not  laugh, — and  kisses !  You  may  guess  how 
I  flushed  with  shame  as  I  heard  them.  I  do  not  know  that  I  was  sur 
prised, — hardly  anything  this  woman  could  have  done  would  have  sur 
prised  me, — but  I  was  mortified  beyond  expression  at  the  thought  that 
she  had  made  a  fool  of  me.  Which  one  of  my  companions  of  the  mor 
row  was  it  that  she  was  making  the  victim  of  her  wiles  ?  I  did  not 
know,  and  determined  that  I  would  not.  Just  as  I  reached  this  con 
clusion,  she  addressed  him  by  name.  Somehow  the  name  seemed  famil 
iar,  but  I  could  not  recall  which  of  her  guests  would  answer  to  it.  I 
soon  became  aware  that  she  was  telling  her  companion  about  the  trial. 
She  spoke  of  me  with  plain,  cool  commendation,  as  one  who  '  thought 
of  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time/  told  him  what  instructions  she 
had  given  me,  and  asked  his  approval.  Everything  had  happened,  she 
said,  just  as  her  companion  had  predicted.  She  then  asked  his  wishes  in 
regard  to  other  matters,  and  finally,  before  I  had  time  to  overcome  my 
confusion,  I  heard  her  pleading  with  him  not  to  go.  She  called  him 
'  dear/  '  beloved/  '  husband/  and  implored  him  in  the  most  impassioned 
tones  to  remain.  Then  I  heard  her  begging  him  to  forgive  her  for 
some  wrong  she  had  done  him ;  again  she  called  him  by  name, — his 
Christian  name, — Matthew  !  How  tenderly  and  reverently  she  uttered 
it! 

"'Oh,  Matthew — Matthew  Ainsworth,  if  you  knew  how  I  lovt* 
you, — how  truly  I  have  always  loved  you, — you  would  never  leave 
me, — you  would  never  have  left  me  !' 

" '  Good  heavens !'  I  thought,  ( it  is  her  husband, — the  man  whose 
will  was  yesterday  sustained  by  the  court !'  Yet  if  he  were  alive  it 
could  not  be  his  will. 

"  The  position  in  which  I  now  found  myself  was  hardly  less  dis 
creditable  than  that  in  which  I  thought  myself  placed  by  witnessing 
an  illicit  amour.  What  was  my  duty?  I  was  of  counsel  and  had 
been  instrumental  in  procuring  a  curious  result, — the  probate  of  a 
living  man's  will !  Of  course  there  was  an  appeal,  and  the  wrong 
might  yet  be  prevented ;  but  what  sort  of  a  position  would  I  be  placed 
in  if  I  attempted  it  ?  Would  I  ever  be  believed  ?  Besides  that,  cui 
bono  f  If  the  testator  and  his  devisee  saw  fit  to  play  such  a  game,  why 
should  I  object  ?  They  undoubtedly  had  their  reasons  for  it.  At  least 
it  was  their  business,  and  not  mine.  The  lady  was  my  client,  and, 
though  what  had  been  done  was  contrary  to  all  legal  morality,  yet,  as 
QO  one  had  any  right  to  complain  at  a  husband  and  wife  playing  such  a 


552  WITH  GAUGE  $   SWALLOW. 

game  with  \\hat  was  their  own,  I  concluded  to  say  nothing  about  it,  but 
be  careful  that  this  strange  woman,  with  her  great  wondering  eyes,  did 
not  get  me  into  any  worse  difficulty.  I  had  agreed  to  undertake  certain 
matters  for  her, — nothing  less  than  the  purchase  of  lands  in  Ohio  on 
which  to  settle  the  slaves  she  was  to  free.  There  could  be  no  harm  in 
this.  Yet  I  resolved  even  in  this  to  be  very  careful,  and  to  decline  all 
further  business.  You  see,  I  was  pretty  cautious  even  then." 

A  smile  went  round  the  little  group  at  the  allusion  to  what  was 
sometimes  regarded  as  his  special  failing. 

"  I  had  intended  to  remain  at  Edgewood  for  several  days,  but  this 
incident  made  me  anxious  to  leave  as  soon  as  possible.  The  arrival 
of  the  mail  the  next  day  after  the  morning  run  gave  me  the  oppor 
tunity.  I  was  not  much  of  a  horseman,  but  I  was  reared  in  the  coun 
try  and  had  learned  as  a  boy  to  stay  on  a  horse.  I  had  borne  myself 
well  enough  in  the  hunt  to  merit  the  commendation  of  those  who  were 
experienced,  and  could  therefore  quit  without  imputation.  There  was 
to  be  a  deer-hunt  in  the  afternoon.  After  glancing  over  my  letters,  I 
announced  that  I  must  leave  the  next  morning.  After  the  failure  of 
various  efforts  to  induce  me  to  change  my  determination,  my  hostess 
said  that  as  I  would  have  to  leave  early,  and  she  wished  to  consult  with 
me  upon  business,  she  would  interpose  her  veto  against  my  going  on 
the  hunt  and  ask  me  to  give  her  the  afternoon. 

"  So  it  was  that  after  the  noonday  meal  I  was  ushered  into  the  room 
her  husband  had  occupied  and  given  a  great  leather-bottomed  rocker  on 
one  side  of  a  smouldering  fire,  on  which  the  hickory  ashes  lay  heaped 
and  white.  The  morning  had  been  chill,  and  the  hint  of  artificial 
warmth  that  filled  the  room  was  very  grateful.  My  hostess  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hearth,  near  her  husband's  desk.  She  was  certainly 
one  of  the  most  attractive  women  I  have  ever  met.  The  only  thing 
that  seemed  odd  about  her  was  that  she  held  nothing  in  her  hands. 
They  did  not  even  caress  each  other.  I  do  not  remember  any  other 
woman  whom  I  have  ever  known  to  sit  down  for  a  consultation  without 
something  to  occupy  her  hands  while  she  gave  her  mind  to  business. 

"  I  was  curious  to  know  why  I  had  heard  so  plainly  what  had  gone 
on  in  this  room  the  night  before,  and  almost  before  seating  myself  was 
exploring  the  ceiling  to  discover  the  cause.  It  was  not  difficult  to  per 
ceive  the  reason.  The  room  was  ceiled  with  the  clear  heart-pine  of  that 
region,  but  around  the  sides  was  a  pretentious  cornice,  from  the  brackets 
of  which  hung  pictures,  trophies  of  the  chase,  and  other  relics  of  the 
departed.  It  was  evident  that  the  bungling  carpenter  had  only  run  the 
ceiling-boards  out  under  the  edge  of  the  cornice,  leaving  the  open  space 
behind  to  act  in  connection  with  the  cracks  below  the  base-boards  in  the 
room  above  as  an  ever-ready  speaking-tube  between  the  two.  In  a  sense 
it  was  a  very  delightful  room.  There  was  in  it  that  air  of  masculine 
domination  which  marked  it  as  a  man's  especial  realm,  while  the  evi 
dences  of  a  woman's  presence  were  sufficiently  numerous  to  show  that 
it  had  long  been  subject  to  joint  occupancy.  I  saw  at  a  glance  the 
secret  of  my  client's  power  over  her  husband.  She  had  subordinated 
herself  wholly  to  his  interest  and  happiness.  The  room  had  been  built 
opening  off  the  bedchamber  as  a  boudoir  for  her ;  she  had  made  it  a 


WITH  GAUGE  f   SWALLOW.  55 j 

smoking-  and  lounging-room  for  him,  counting  herself  only  as  one  of 
its  movable  attractions. 

"  She  noticed  my  scrutiny,  and  said,  with  a  smile,  but  without  any 
trace  of  embarrassment, — 

" '  Did  you  hear  anything  unusual  last  night  ?' 

"  I  admitted  with  a  shrug  that  perhaps  my  rest  had  not  been  undis 
turbed. 

"  '  I  can  understand/  she  replied,  with  a  quiet  dignity, '  that  it  must 
seem  very  strange  to  you.  I  do  not  understand  it  myself,  and,  as  I 
thought  I  ought  to  have  advice  upon  the  matter,  I  concluded  to  trust 
you  rather  than  Mr.  Buford  ;  not  that  I  lack  confidence  in  him,  but 
somehow  I  would  rather  not  speak  of  the  matter  to  one  living  here. 
If  you  heard  what  occurred  here  last  night/  she  continued,  as  if  stating 
the  most  ordinary  event,  '  you  are  already  aware  that  Matthew — my 
husband — visited  me ;  and  I  may  say  to  you  that  he  comes  every  night, 
is  as  pleasant  and  natural  as  ever,  but  I  cannot  induce  him  to  sit  down 
or  stay.  He  is  tender  and  loving,  but  seems  grieved  at  something  I 
have  done.  For  a  while  I  locked  the  door,  but  every  night  he  came 
and  tapped  on  the  window  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  came  home  late. 
So  now  I  leave  the  door  open,  and  he  comes  and  goes  at  will.  He  has 
advised  me  in  all  this  matter.  I  did  not  wish  to  do  it,  because  I  could 
not  swear  I  thought  him  dead,  you  see;  but  others  think  so,  and  he 
gets  terribly  angry  if  I  speak  of  betraying  him.  So,  too,  I  could  not 
say  I  had  received  no  letters  from  him  since  his  supposed  death.  You 
noticed  that  I  merely  said  that  I  had  had  no  communication  with  him 
by  mail  since  that  time.  Why,  I  get  letters  from  him  almost  every 
night.  He  brings  one,  and  I  find  it  on  the  desk  in  the  morning.  Here 
they  are/  she  said,  taking  up  a  package  from  the  desk.  '  There  is  one 
T  received  this  morning.  You  see  I  am  doing  just  what  he  advises.' 

"  She  handed  me  an  open  letter  as  she  spoke.  I  started  with  sur 
prise.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  same  handwriting  as  the  will.  I  had 
seen  other  specimens  of  Mr.  Ainsworth's  writing,  too,  and  could  not 
mistake  it.  It  counselled  the  most  implicit  confidence  in  my  judgment 
and  directed  her  to  follow  rny  advice  in  all  things.  I  could  not  but 
smile  at  the  reasons  given  for  this  :  they  were  sound  enough,  but  by  no 
means  such  as  my  vanity  would  have  dictated. 

" '  Well/  she  asked,  with  a  smile,  '  what  shall  I  do  ?  You  see  I 
am  put  in  your  charge  with  no  more  discretion  than  if  I  were  a  baby. 
I  don't  understand  it.  It  is  not  like  Matthew  to  do  so  ;  but  I  suppose 
he  has  his  reasons,  and  I  have  never  failed  to  comply  with  any  wish  of 
his.' 

"  I  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  woman  or  her  story. 

"  *  Will  you  let  me  see  his  letters  ?'  I  asked. 

<{ '  Certainly/  she  replied.  *  There  they  are.  You  will  find  some 
love  in  them,  perhaps,  but  you  will  excuse  that.  Matthew  has  never 
ceased  to  be  a  lover.' 

"  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

" '  And  now  may  I  go  and  think  ?'  I  asked,  with  the  letters  in  my 
hand. 

"  '  You  may  stay  and  think/  she  rejoined,  with  a  smile.     '  I  will  go.' 


554  WITH  &AUQE  4  SWALLOW. 

"  She  rose  as  she  spoke,  but  still  hesitated.  She  had  taken  a  hand 
kerchief  from  her  pocket  to  wipe  her  eyes,  and  now  stood  wadding  it 
up  and  picking  it  apart  as  she  said, — 

" l  He  has  told  me  to  trust  you  implicitly  and  tell  you  everything. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  do  it ;  but  it  is  very  hard.  I  shall  have  to  tell 
you  what  I  never  told  him,  but  what  he  seems  to  have  found  out.  I 
was  married  before  I  met  him ;  and  my  husband  is  still  alive  !' 

"  She  cast  down  her  eyes  and  grew  deathly  pale  as  she  spoke  these 
words. 

"  '  But  you  were  divorced  ?'  I  said. 

"  She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  answer.  While  I  stood  stupefied 
with  amazement,  she  stepped  silently  backward  into  her  own  room,  and 
I  heard  the  bolt  shot  into  its  place  as  the  door  closed. 

"  The  fact  which  she  had  stated  seemed  a  solution  of  the  whole 
mystery.  The  devoted  husband,  having  discovered  that  his  marriage 
was  void,  had  become  anxious  only  to  extricate  the  woman  he  loved 
from  her  perilous  position,  and  for  that  purpose  had  devised  all  that 
had  seemed  so  unnatural  and  mysterious.  The  letters  confirmed  this 
impression.  They  advised  her  day  by  day  and  step  by  step.  He  had 
renounced  his  place  as  her  husband,  but  did  not  seek  to  hide  his  love. 
He  evidently  trusted  me,  and  desired  me  to  help  him  care  for  and  save 
from  peril  and  disgrace  the  woman  he  loved. 

"  A  tender  regard  for  this  great  self-sacrificing  nature  awoke  in  my 
heart  as  I  read  the  letters.  Could  I  help  him  ?  I  reviewed  the  situa 
tion.  I  could  not  make  myself  a  party  to  a  fraud ;  but  was  this  fraud  ? 
I  could  not  quite  understand  why  he  should  take  the  course  he  had, 
but  he  had  an  unquestioned  right  to  do  as  he  saw  fit.  I  decided  to  do 
as  he  wished.  At  the  same  time,  I  had  an  irrepressible  desire  to  see 
this  wonderful  man.  I  thought  I  could  help  him  more  effectively  if  I 
could  talk  with  him  face  to  face  a  few  minutes.  I  wondered  where  he 
kept  himself  concealed  in  this  neighborhood  where  he  was  so  well 
known.  His  presence,  of  course,  accounted  for  one  of  the  missing 
wills, — perhaps  for  both.  Well,  I  would  help  him  in  his  own  way. 

"  When  I  had  reached  this  conclusion,  I  tapped  on  her  door.  After 
a  moment  she  entered,  her  face  flushed,  but  composed  and  tranquil. 
For  the  first  time,  I  felt  a  real  sympathy  for  her. 

"  *  You  must  have  suffered  greatly/  I  said. 

"  She  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  relieved  from  suspense.  f  Words 
cannot  express  what  I  have  endured.' 

"  '  Your  husband,— Robards ?' 

" '  That  is  his  middle  name,'  she  said,  in  a  tone  as  hard  as  steel. 
l( '  He  is  a  villain/  she  added, '  the  most  infamous  villain  that  ever  lived  F 

"  '  Can  nothing  be  done — with  him  ?' 

"  She  shook  her  head. 

" '  Does  he  know  where  you  are  ?' 

" '  He  thinks  me  dead.  You  see,  I  was  drowned,  and  an  inquest 
held  over  me/  she  answered,  '  after  I  escaped  from  him.  That  is  the 
word, — escaped.  I  meant  to  die, — and  would  have  died  but  for  my 
daughter.  Somebody  did  die  and  was  buried  in  my  stead.  There  is 
the  account  of  it.' 


WITH  GAUGE  $  SWALLOW.  555 

"Sh»  handed  me  a  newspaper  slip  as  she  spoke,  containing  an 
account  of  a  celebrated  disappearance  the  horror  of  which  I  well  re 
membered. 

" '  You  see  I  am  mad  as  well  as  dead/  she  added,  bitterly. 

"  '  And  your  daughter  ?'  I  asked. 

" '  The  woman  in  whose  care  I  left  her  no  doubt  believed  the  ac 
count  of  my  death.  Before  I  dared  communicate  with  her,  she  too  dis 
appeared.  I  have  tried  to  find  her,  but  cannot.  Oh,  my  child !  my 
child !' 

"  I  pitied  the  woman  all  the  more  that  she  did  not  stoop  to  rail 
against  her  husband  or  excuse  herself.  She  told  what  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  tell,  offering  no  apology  or  explanation.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  herself  or  me,  but  only  of  the  man  she  loved  and  the  child 
she  had  lost. 

" '  And  how  much  of  this  did  you  tell  your  husband, — Ainsworth, 
I  mean  ?' 

"  '  Not — one — word/  she  replied,  positively. 

" '  Very  well/  I  said.     '  I  will  do  what  I  can/ 

"  She  crossed  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  sitting-room,  opened  it, 
and  I  passed  out. 

"  That  night  I  again  heard  the  conversation  in  the  room  below.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  as  well  have  an  interview  with  my  un 
known  client  and  tell  him  a  thing  or  two.  So  I  slipped  on  my  clothes 
and  stole  carefully  down  the  stairs.  As  I  expected,  I  found  the  sitting- 
room  unlocked,  and,  turning  the  knob,  I  looked  in.  I  have  seen  a 
good  many  curious  thiiigs,  but  what  I  saw  that  night  surprised  me 
more  than  anything  else  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  meet  with. 

"  The  room  was  brilliantly  lighted.  At  the  desk  sat  Mrs.  Ainsworth, 
clad  in  a  white  wrapper,  her  face  aglow  with  happiness,  chattering  away 
to  a  portrait  of  her  husband  that  stood  before  her  and  answering  herself 
in  a  voice  so  changed  that  it  was  no  wonder  I  had  not  recognized  it. 
While  I  stood  with  the  door  ajar,  transfixed  with  wonder  at  what  I 
saw,  she  ceased  to  talk  and  began  to  write.  Satisfied  of  her  condition, 
a  new  question  arose  in  my  mind.  Did  she  write  the  letters  I  have 
read  ?  and,  if  so,  who  wrote  the  will  ? 

"Slipping  into  the  room,  I  closed  the  door  and  stepped  forward 
until  I  could  see  over  her  shoulder.  One  glance  was  enough  :  it  was 
the  exact  counterpart  of  her  husband's  handwriting  !  After  watching 
her  a  few  moments,  I  stole  back  to  bed,  more  puzzled  than  ever.  People 
did  not  talk  so  glibly  about  spiritual  influence  then  as  they  do  now,  but 
I  must  confess  that  something  of  the  kind  occurred  to  me  as  the  only 
explanation  of  the  riddles  I  had  seen.  After  all.  it  was  only  a  woman's 
love  and  a  woman's  woe  working  on  a  woman's  conscience, — a  conscience 
keener  than  a  Damascus  blade  in  sleep  and  duller  than  a  Bushman's 
cleaver  when  awake.  This  was  my  conclusion  as  I  fell  asleep. 

"  'I  am  going  to  advise  Mrs.  Ainsworth  to  go  North  very  soon/  E 
said  to  Mr.  Buford  as  I  met  him  the  next  morning. 

" '  And  I  should  advise  you  to  go  at  once/  was  his  placid  reply. 
" '  I'm  going,  of  course/  I  said,  lightly ;    (  but  why  should  you 
advise  it  ?' 


556  WITH  GAUGE  f   SWALLOW. 

" '  I  understand  you  were  seen  couiing  from  a  lady's  room  last 
night,'  he  answered,  icily. 

"  I  think  I  hardly  flushed  at  this  insinuation.  '  And  is  this  the 
reason  you  advise  my  going  ?' 

" '  Certainly.' 

"  <  Then  I  will  stay.' 

" (  As  you  please,'  was  his  careless  reply. 

" '  Mr.  Buford,'  I  said,  '  I  don't  kuow  much  about  your  code  of 
honor,  but  I  do  know  that  common  decency  requires  that  a  man  should 
not  run  away  and  leave  a  woman  to  suffer  detraction  unjustly  on  his 
account.  Nothing  has  ever  passed  between  this  woman  and  myself 
that  every  one  is  not  welcome  to  know.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all  I 
have  learned ;  but  I  am  bound  in  honor  not  to  do  so.  What  occurred 
last  night  was  this.  I  heard,  as  I  thought,  two  voices  in  the  room 
below.  I  had  reason  to  suspect  that  something  was  wrong.  I  went 
down  and  looked  in.  What  I  saw  was  a  woman  worshipping  her  hus 
band's  portrait  in  her  sleep, — laughing  at  it,  talking  at  it  as  if  alive, — 
as  she  really  believes  him  to  be.  I  shall  advise  her  to  go  North  by 
water  from  Richmond,  because  if  this  thing  keeps  up  she  will  surely 
die.  She  must  have  fresh  surroundings, — new  associations.' 

"  '  Is  this  true?'  asked  Buford,  keenly. 

" '  Every  word.' 

" '  I  am  glad  to  believe  it,'  he  replied,  with  dignity,  '  and  beg  your 
pardon  for  my  unjust  remark.  I  am  the  only  one  who  knows  what 
happened.' 

" '  And  you  ?'  I  asked,  with  sudden  suspicion. 

" '  I  heartily  approve  your  plan,  sir,'  was  the  reply." 

"  What  became  of  her  ?"  asked  Miuton,  when  the  Senior  paused. 

"Oh,  she  disposed  of  the  estate,  came  North,  emancipated  the 
slaves,  and  invested  the  remnant  of  the  proceeds  in  Chicago  real  estate. 
I  did  most  of  her  business  for  several  years, — always  against  Burrill's 
protest.  You  see,  she  used  to  send  me  letters  from  her  husband,  ad 
vising  the  most  unexpected  transactions,  which  always  turned  out  well. 
At  first  she  no  doubt  believed  that  he  was  alive  and  that  these  letters 
were  veritable  messages  from  him.  She  made  no  effort  to  verify  this 
belief,  but  just  waited  for  him  to  proclaim  himself  openly.  At  length 
I  ventured  to  tell  her  what  I  knew.  The  shock  was  very  great.  She 
put  on  mourning,  and  her  beautiful  brown  hair  soon  became  gray. 
Still  the  letters  continued.  She  did  not  lose  any  faith  in  their  verity, 
but  counted  them  as  ghostly  communications  from  the  man  she  mourned 
as  dead.  Her  hand,  she  said,  was  guided  by  his  spirit.  She  attested 
her  sincerity  by  making  good  to  the  contestants  what  they  had  lost  by 
the  will.  It  is  amazing  how  accurate  these  mysterious  prognostications 
were.  She  obeyed  them  in  everything,  and  prospered  wonderfully 
under  spiritual  guidance." 

"  Spiritual !"  echoed  Burrill,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Burrill  never  would  believe  in  their  celestial  origin,"  said  the 
Senior,  with  a  significant  smile,  "  and  never  touched  the  papers  except 
by  my  express  command.  For  years  I  did  almost  all  the  work  myself, 
just  to  save  his  prejudices." 


WITH   GAUGE  #  SWALLOW.  557 

"I've  110  fancy  for  the  devil's  billet-doux,"  said  Burrill,  with  a 
shrug. 

"  Did  you  ever  learn  what  became  of  her  husband  ?"  I  asked. 

"Which  one?" 

"  I  meant  Ainsworth,"  I  replied,  "  though  the  other  was  really  her 
husband,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  undoubtedly.  She  was  neither  Ainsworth's  wife  nor  legatee. 
Her  husband  died  a  few  years  after,  without  any  suspicion  that  his  wife 
was  still  alive." 

"  I  suppose  no  one  ever  learned  what  really  became  of  Ainsworth  ?" 
said  Miuton,  reflectively. 

"  Pie  died  the  other  day,  and,  as  I  am  the  custodian  of  his  will,  I 
have  just  been  summoned  to  produce  it  in  Chicago.  I  shall  have  to 
send  some  one,  as  I  cannot  leave  the  city  for  a  week  or  more." 

"  Not  me,  sir  !"  said  Burrell,  excitedly  pushing  the  papers  away 
from  him.  "  I've  had  enough  of  the  devil's  business.  I  thought  you 
dropped  the  whole  thing  long  ago." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  the  Senior,  with  a  laugh  ;  "  but  one  day,  about  the 
beginning  of  the  civil  war,  a  man  came  in  and  inquired  for  me.  As 
it  happened,  I  was  the  only  one  in  the  office.  He  wore  a  uniform, — 
said  lie  was  under  orders  to  go  to  the  front,  and  wanted  to  execute  his 
will.  It  was  already  drawn,  he  said,  but  he  would  like  me  to  see  that 
it  was  in  due  form  and  have  it  properly  attested.  I  opened  the  paper 
he  handed  me,  and  was  horrified  to  recognize  the  familiar  handwriting 
of  the  ghostly  missives.  Turning  to  the  signature,  I  saw  the  name 
Matthew  Ainsworth.  He  refused  to  answer  any  questions,  but,  seeing 
in  whose  favor  the  instrument  was  drawn,  I  told  him  all  I  knew  about 
the  woman  he  had  thought  his  wife.  I  shall  never  forget  the  light  that 
came  into  his  face  as  he  realized  the  devotion  of  the  woman  he  loved 
to  his  memory.  '  Quick  !'  he  exclaimed  ;  'the  witnesses  !'  Then,  look 
ing  at  his  watch,  he  declared  that  he  had  still  time  to  see  her  before  his 
leave  expired  if  he  caught  the  next  train.  I  called  a  couple  of  friends 
from  an  adjoining  office,  saw  the  will  attested,  and  left  with  him  for 
Chicago  an  hour  afterwards.  They  were  married  on  our  arrival.  It 
was  a  great  shock  for  her  to  learn  that  the  man  she  had  dreamed  of  as 
watching  over  her  from  the  spirit-world  had  in  truth  been  doggedly 
working  and  prospering  in  the  same  city,  quite  unconscious  of  her 
presence  near  him.  Yes,  he  had  made  a  slight  change  of  name :  he 
was  called  Ensworth  instead  of  Ainsworth.  It  was  by  what  she  said 
in  her  sleep  that  he  first  obtained  an  inkling  as  to  the  secrets  of  her 
previous  life,  and  when  he  found  the  evil  incurable  he  just  took  him 
self  out  of  the  way,  never  expecting  to  see  her  again,  but  loving  her 
just  as  much  as  ever.  After  that  we  hail  no  business  from  her  until 
this  morning  I  was  summoned  to  produce  the  will.  As  it  happens,  I 
cannot  go,  and  Burrill  won't :  so  I  think  you  must,  Mr.  Minton."  The 
Senior  turned  inquiringly  towards  him  as  he  spoke. 

"Just  as  you  say,  replied  Minton,  nonchalantly  beginning  to  put 
his  desk  in  order.  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  time  to  lose  ?" 

"Well,  no,"  answered  the  Senior,  deliberately,  "though  there  is  no 
special  haste.  Of  course  there  will  have  to  be  a  commission  to  take 


558  FATHER'S  CHILD. 

testimony  before  the  will  can  be  admitted  to  probate,  and  you  may 
have  to  remain  there  several  weeks.  Why  not  take  your  wife  along 
and  have  a  good  time  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  do  that,"  said  Minton,  his  face  lighting  up  with 
pleasure. 

"  All  right.  Here  is  a  check  for  expenses,"  said  Mr.  Gauge. 
"  You  may  as  well  use  it  all." 

Minton  seemed  about  to  protest,  but  the  Senior  said,  laughingly, — 

"  It  won't  hurt  you,  and  she  can  afford  it.  Send  a  message  to 
your  wife,  and  get  off  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Minton,  as  he  put  on  his  coat  and  went  out. 

"  He's  a  good  fellow,"  said  the  Senior,  watching  his  retreating  figure, 
— "  a  good  fellow, — and  I'm  sorry  to  lose  him." 

"  Lose  him !"  ejaculated  Burrill. 

Mr.  Gauge  laughed,  and  laid  a  telegram  on  the  desk  before  the  old 
clerk : 

"  Send  Minton  with  will.     Have  him  bring  wife.     Draft  by  mail. 

"LUELLA  ENSWORTH." 

"  Put  it  with  the  papers  and  seal  them  up,"  said  the  Senior,  as  he 
started  for  his  own  room.  "  Ainsworth  vs.  Ainsworth  is  finally  closed." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  muttered  Burrill,  as  he  tied  up  the 
package.  "  What  do  you  suppose  the  old  cat  means,  ordering  Minton 
and  his  wife  sent  to  her  by  express,  like  a  couple  of  packages  she  has 
bought  and  paid  for  ?  Didn't  the  old  man  do  it  neatly,  though  ?"  he 
added,  with  sudden  appreciation  of  the  skill  the  Senior  had  shown 
in  complying  with  the  request.  "  Oh,  he's  sharp !  He  never  makes 
mistakes  in  anything, — big  or  little  !" 

Albion  W.  Towgce. 


FATHER'S   CHILD. 

MY  little  girl  to-night  with  childish  glee, 
Although  her  months  had  numbered  not  twoscore, 
Escaped  her  nurse,  and,  at  my  study  door, 
With  tiny  fingers  rapping,  spoke  to  me : 
Though  faint  her  words,  I  heard  them  tremblingly 
Fall  from  her  lips,  as  if  the  darkness  bore 
Its  weight  upon  her :  "  Father's  child."     No  more 
I  waited  for,  but  straightway  willingly 
I  brought  the  sweet  intruder  into  light 
With  happy  laughter.     Even  so  some  night, 
When,  from  the  nursing  earth  escaped  and  free, 

My  soul  shall  try  in  her  first  infant  flight 
To  seek  God's  chamber,  these  two  words  shall  be 
Those  that  will  make  Him  ope  His  door  to  me. 

R.T.W.  Dute,  Jr. 


THE  ENDOWMENT  OF  GENIUS.  559 


THE  ENDOWMENT  OF  GENIUS. 

FOR  many  years  I  have  entertained  an  idea  which  I  supposed  was 
wholly  original,  and  which,  when  I  arrive  at  great  wealth,  I  shall 
wish  to  make  concrete  and  practical.  The  fact  that  people  generally 
would  be  likely  to  consider  it  fantastic  and  impracticable  will  partly 
account  for  the  silence  I  have  so  long  shrouded  it  in.  But  there  are 
really,  as  I  find,  very  few  original  ideas  in  the  world, — perhaps  not 
any  that  are  wholly  original.  The  soil  of  thought,  in  fact,  has  been 
so  thoroughly  ploughed  and  pulverized,  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to 
have  entertained  the  notion  that  any  private  thought  or  scheme  has 
not  had  a  previous,  or  simultaneous,  lodgment  in  some  other  brain. 
As  I  find  at  last  that  I  am  not  likely  to  be  a  millionaire,  and  the 
thought  I  had  kept  so  long  sequestered  has  dawned  partially  to  another 
writer,  there  will  be  no  harm  now  in  making  this  disclosure. 

My  idea  was  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  some  man  of  wealth 
who  is  casting  about  for  some  worthy  object  on  which  to  bestow  a  few 
surplus  thousands  should  remember  that  in  this  country,  and  in  all 
others  where  civilization  prevails,  there  are  a  certain  few  whom  nature 
has  set  apart  for  special  work  which  the  best  equipped  of  all  the  multi 
tude  besides  can  never  undertake  or  help  in  doing.  All  the  millionaires 
in  Europe  could  not,  for  instance,  have  written  Coleridge's  poem  of 
"  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  or  Shelley's  "  Ode  to  a  Skylark,"  or  Keata's 
"  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn." 

Neither  could  they,  or  the  educated  class  itself,  or  the  kings  and 
generals  of  the  world,  have  done  the  work  which  fell  to  Robert  Burns. 
But  the  men  of  wealth  could  have  made  this  work  easier ;  they  could 
have  prevented  Otway  from  starving  and  Goldsmith  from  being  pinched 
and  bitten  by  wolfish  poverty.  How  gladly  they  would  now  do  this  if 
these  men  were  now  alive  and  struggling,  and  it  were  well  known  that 
moderate  financial  help  would  not  only  save  them  from  direct  hard 
ships,  but  would  make  them  capable  of  doing  more  of  their  best  work  ! 

I  have  drawn  my  names  from  those  of  the  poets'  craft,  but  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  they  are  the  only  men  of  genius.  There  are  great 
scientists,  and  great  artists,  and  great  physicists,  and  great  physiologists, 
and  great  inventors,  and  great  explorers,  who  might  well  be  helped  by 
some  system  of  financial  endowment.  Of  course  the  help  should  be 
given  under  some  understood  system  or  rule,  which  should  not  be  mere 
personal  patronage,  or  have  an  almsy  flavor, — though  it  might  be  wholly 
done  for  one  person  who  is  a  proved  genius  by  one  other  person  who 
is  a  man  of  wealth  and  willingness.  Why  should  it  l>e  considered 
more  ridiculous  to  endow  a  man  than  to  endow  the  university  chair  a 
man  occupies? — or  than  to  endow  a  university  itself? 

The  latter  is  done  freely,  and  the  professor  who  draws  his  salary, 

and  the  pupils  who  receive  more  cheaply  their  tuition,  by  reason  of  such 

endowments,  do  not  feel  pauperized   by  their  benefits.      Why,  then, 

should  a  man  who  is  doing  special  work  for  the  world  in  a  larger  sense 

VOL.  XLL— 36 


560  THE  ENDOWMENT  OF  GENIUS. 

than  any  university  be  loath  to  accept  his  living  so  as  to  be  free  to 
pursue  it  ?  Or  why  should  a  millionaire  of  true  perceptions  and  be 
nevolent  impulses  not  delight  just  as  much  to  endow  a  genius  when  he 
is  sure  he  has  found  one,  as  to  make  any  other  provision  of  beneficence? 

The  man  of  genius,  to  pursue  his  work  fitly,  needs  a  perfect  ab 
straction  from  merely  material  cares.  If  he  could  make  money  easily, 
he  has — as  Agassiz  had — no  time  to  do  so,  and  generally  he  lacks  the 
faculty  to  do  so.  The  problem  of  his  life  is  a  double  one.  It  is  both 
ideal  and  practical.  He  wishes  to  drive  the  horses  of  the  sun,  but  the 
road-cart  or  farm-cart  consumes  all  his  time.  If  his  dealings  in  the 
sky  or  with  Pegasus  were  purely  a  private  matter,  like  the  rich  man's 
yacht  or  horses  or  hounds,  we  could  well  enough  afford  to  let  him 
alone.  But  he  is  working  his  celestial  aims  for  satisfactions  and  results 
that  belong  to,  and  will  go  directly  for  the  benefit  of,  the  whole  human 
race.  There  is  no  work  that  any  millionaire  can  possibly  leave  behind, 
no  single  enterprise  that  even  a  government  can  further,  that  will  bear 
a  moment's  comparison  in  its  importance  with  the  legacy  Wordsworth, 
say,  or  Raphael,  has  contributed  to  the  world. 

It  would  be  no  extravagance  to  say  that  the  measure  of  culture  and 
human  benefit  that  has  flowed  to  mankind  already  from  that  one  artist, 
Raphael,  is  beyond  computation  in  figures  or  words.  But  the  stream 
of  influence  is  nowise  lessened  by  what  has  been  given  from  it,  but  will 
go  on  to  the  end  of  time.  No  one  suspected  when  he  was  at  work,  four 
hundred  years  ago,  what  a  force  had  come  into  the  world,  and  no  one 
can  imagine  how  many  others  of  analogous  benefit  might  have  come, 
but  were  crushed  by  the  material  impediments  of  practical  life. 

With  the  great  multitude  of  men  who  have  no  highly  unique  and 
special  vocation  life  is  mainly  a  struggle  for  material  place  and  power, 
or  for  the  comfortable  necessaries  of  existence.  Even  this  is  hard 
enough  •  but,  when  our  few  of  finer  mould  are  compelled  to  add  this 
struggle  to  the  one  necessary  to  their  chosen  pursuit,  it  is  no  wonder  so 
many  "  mute  inglorious  Miltons"  fall  by  the  way.  Ought  there  not, 
then,  to  be  some  method  applied,  whereby  the  same  care  can  be  be 
stowed  upon  a  grand  man  that  we  would  bestow  upon  a  rare  treasure 
of  some  other  sort?  We  cannot  secure  the  great  man's  arrival;  but 
when  he  has  come  we  can  show  that  we  know  him  and  appreciate  him, 
as  the  bees  know  and  appreciate  the  one  who  is,  of  all  others,  most 
valuable  to  the  hive.  When  "Dexter" — was  it  not? — was  found  draw 
ing  a  clay-cart,  and  the  signs  of  speed  in  him  were  unmistakable,  what 
a  world  of  excitement  there  was  !  No  harness  was  too  fine,  no  stable 
too  good  for  him.  He  had  valets  to  attend  his  most  delicate  wants, 
watchers  by  night  and  by  day.  I  do  not  say  there  was  the  slightest 
inappropriateness  in  this.  I  merely  ask  if  the  man  of  wonderful  pos 
sibilities  is  not  of  as  much  account,  and  deserving  of  as  much  care,  as 
the  wonderful  horse. 

The  great  man,  or  man  of  genius,  will  forego  yachts  and  palaces 
and  the  muniments  of  wealth,  though  he  could  enjoy  them.  What  he 
needs  at  once  and  mainly  is  that  sure  provision  which  shall  give  him 
subsistence  and  leave  him  free  from  worldly  toil  and  worry, — as  a  pre 
requisite  to  prosecuting  his  work.  If  some  millionaire  could  see  this, 


THE  ENDOWMENT  OF  GENIUS.  5(jj 

who  is  willing  to  further  the  interests  of  society  by  some  moderate 
donation  only,  he  could  set  some  one  struggling  genius  free,  and  not 
only  do  immense  good  thereby,  but  he  could  set  also  a  brilliant  example 
towards  well-doing  it)  others  of  his  class. 

A  writer  in  the  Ncition  who,  not  long  ago,  simply  anticipated  my 
idea  in  part,  says,  in  pleading  for  "the  endowment  of  private  research," 
that  no  one  can  doubt  that  "  mental  power  is  a  great  endowment. 
Huxley  has  well  said  that  any  country  would  find  it  greatly  to  its 
profit  to  spend  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  first  finding  a  Faraday, 
and  then  putting  him  in  a  position  in  which  he  could  do  the  greatest 
possible  amount  of  work.  A  man  of  genius  is  so  valuable  a  product 
that  he  ought  to  be  secured  at  all  cost ;  to  be  kept  like  a  queen-bee  in 
a  hot-house,  fed  upon  happiness,  and  stimulated  in  every  way  to  the 
greatest  possible  activity.  To  expose  him  to  the  same  harsh  treatment 
which  is  good  for  the  hod-carrier  and  the  bricklayer  is  to  indulge  in  a 
reckless  waste  of  the  means  of  a  country's  greatness."  Again  he  says, 
"  The  waste  of  water-power  at  Niagara  is  as  nothing  compared  with 
the  waste  of  brain-power  which  results  from  compelling  a  man  of  ex 
ceptional  qualifications  to  earn  his  own  living." 

Now,  it  may  be  hard  to  start  a  Maecenas-guild  of  the  kind  I  recom 
mend,  and  which  this  writer  has  struck  the  entering-wedge  towards  pro 
viding;  but  it  should  not  be  impossible.  There  is  no  objection  to  it 
that  cannot  be  urged  against  any  other  form  of  public  beneficence.  If 
there  should  be  a  mistake  made  sometimes  in  selecting  your  man  of 
genius,  there  are  often  fearful  mistakes  made  in  bestowing  funds  to 
other  endowments.  A  considerable  part  of  the  money  which  goes,  with 
the  best  of  motives,  to  endow  existing  churches,  results  simply  in  making 
lazy  and  penurious  Christians  in  the  localities  so  favored.  It  is  a  fact, 
too,  with  every  good  scheme  that  it  may  miscarry  now  and  then.  But 
let  us  not  abandon  a  good  idea  because  it  requires  delicacy  and  circum 
spection  in  its  embodiment.  For  fraud  seems  to  have  the  faculty  of 
masking  itself  everywhere,  and  nowhere  as  successfully  as  where  the 
cause  is  a  superlatively  good  one. 

The  "  waste  of  water-{xnver  at  Niagara"  may  be  deemed  a  somewhat 
striking  figure,  but  it  is  none  too  expressive.  Nothing  can  be  too  ex 
pressive  to  show  how  our  superlative  mind-power,  or  power  of  genius,  is 
wasted.  One  of  the  men  capable  of  doing  the  finest  literary  work  done 
in  this  country  goes  into  a  financial  bedlam  year  after  year  to  make  his 
living,  and  does  it.  But  he  must  work,  too,  when  others  sleep,  to  do 
the  tasks  that  he  was  specially  ordained  for, — tasks  for  which  all  time 
is  far  too  brief.  Another  is  using  his  life  up  by  hack-work  at  a  news 
paper-desk,  whose  name,  in  spite  of  this  and  of  ill  health,  is  close  linked 
with  the  best  literature  of  this  country.  A  certain  inventor  whom  I 
knew — and  he  was  among  the  most  famous — almost  starved  himself 
and  family  for  years,  and  more  than  once  pawned  his  wife's  shawl  for  a 
baking  of  flour,  so  that  he  could  go  on  with  his  experiments.  But  this 
list  is  too  long  to  tell.  Others  who  might  be  named  are  now  wasting 
the  most  precious  time  in  the  world  to  do  the  tasks  which  a  hod-carrier 
can  do,  and  which  a  moderate  financial  endowment  would  release  them 
from  to  the  immediate  furtherance  of  their  divinely  appointed  work. 


562  THE   ENDOWMENT  OF  GENIUS. 

We  do  not  use  rosewood  and  mahogany  to  make  our  hoe-handles 
and  ploughs  of,  but  we  do  set  our  finest  brains  to,  or  force  them  into, 
tasks  that  are  an  inexcusable  and  lavish  waste  and  a  bereavement  to 
the  world.  Suppose  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  had  not  happened  to  be 
thrifty.  He  might  have  died  holding  horses  at  the  door  of  the  theatre, 
and  the  world  would  have  lost  what  the  failure  of  Columbus  to  dis 
cover  America — if  he  had  failed — is  a  weak  parallel  to  represent.  Who 
can  estimate  how  many  Hamlets  and  Othellos,  even  as  the  case  was  with 
Shakespeare,  may  have  been  left  unwritten  by  the  assumption  on  his 
part  of  coarse  and  worldly  tasks  which  were  necessary  to  make  the  pot 
boil,  and  to  secure  the  coveted  home  at  Stratfor$tt  How  pathetic  to 
remember  that  a  great  author  wrote  one  of  his  most  charming  and 
classical  works,  in  headlong  haste,  to  obtain  the  sum  necessary  to  defray 
his  mother's  funeral  expenses  !  If  Charles  Lamb  could  have  been 
saved  from  the  direful  drudgery  of  his  long  and  dreary  clerkship,  what 
a  measureless  fund  of  new  and  additional  delights  he  might  have  be 
queathed  to  the  world !  A  million  men  might  have  filled  his  place  at 
the  India  House ;  but  who,  besides  himself,  could  have  produced  the 
least  one  of  his  unique  and  incomparable  essays?  Perhaps  even  Foe 
would  have  done  more  with  a  fair  endowment,  and  not  have  left  the 
world  a  lamentable  mind-wreck  and  piteous  example.  In  an  age  when 
science  has  brought  material  economies  into  high  prominence  by  every 
device  and  invention,  must  we  sit  down  calmly  and  say  that  there  is  no 
way  to  prevent  the  most  precious  material  in  the  world  from  appalling 
waste  and  destruction  ?  Surely  there  ought  to  be  some  provision  where 
by  such  stupendous  calamities  may  be  made  impossible,  or  a  little  less 
possible ;  for  no  doubt  they  have  always  taken  place, — only,  when  they 
do,  we  do  not  always  know  it.  The  iceberg  strikes  the  ship,  and  it 
never  comes  to  port.  Against  the  iceberg,  to  be  sure,  there  is  no  remedy, 
but  to  the  obstacles  that  beset  the  man  of  genius  a  thousand  purses  in 
every  large  community  could  easily  apply  the  extinguisher. 

But  the  controller  of  a  purse  must  first  see  this ;  as  the  deserving 
recipient  of  an  endowment,  by  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  can  make 
no  sign.  He  will  go  on  with  his  work  imperfectly,  or  give  it  up  in 
despair.  So  far  as  he  is  concerned,  even  in  this  case,  no  favor  need  be 
asked.  But  the  cause  of  civilization  and  of  mankind  is  closely  bound 
up  with  the  life  and  work  of  this  one  man's  mind  in  a  way  that  mere 
millions  of  money  do  not  begin  to  represent.  Can  we  afford  that  the 
treasure  so  enclosed  shall  be  either  impaired  or  lost  ?  What  greater  glory 
can  a  Avealthy  man  desire  than  to  have  been  Maecenas  when  Virgil 
lived?  What  greater  task  can  he  set  himself  to-day  than  to  yield  up 
a  sum  insignificant  to  him,  in  order  that  some  other  Virgil  may  make 
human  life  better  for  twenty,  or  for  endless,  centuries  to  come  ? 

Joel  JBenton. 


OUR   MONTHLY  GOSSIP. 


OUR  MONTHLY   GOSSIP 

WITH  READERS  AND  CORRESPONDENTS. 


C.  R.  R.  asks,  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  Printers'  1'i?" 

Pi  or  Pie,  a  printers'  term  used  to  designate  a  mass  of  confused  or  ovei- 
thrown  types,  and  plausibly  derived  from  the  Pica  or  Pie,  the  Romish  Ordinal 
or  Service  Book  which  gave  its  name  to  the  type  known  as  Pica,  and  of  which 
the  preface  to  the  English  Book  of  Common  Prayer  complains  that  "  the  number 
and  hardness  of  the  rules  called  the  pie  was  the  cause  that  to  turn  the  book 
only  was  so  hard  and  intricate  a  matter  that  many  times  there  was  more  business 
to  find  out  what  should  be  read  than  to  read  it  when  it  was  found  out." 

C.  G.  asks,  "Who,  or  what,  is  'Rabagas'?  The  word  is  much  used  in 
O'Connor's  '  Life  of  ParuelF  as  an  epithet  of  scorn  and  disgust." 

Rabagas  is  the  hero  and  title  of  a  five-act  comedy  by  Victorien  Sardou,  first 
produced  at  the  Vaudeville  in  Paris,  February,  1872.  The  satire  is  directed 
against  Gambetta  and  Einile  Ollivier,  the  hero  being  a  compound  of  both.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  Monaco.  Rabagas,  a  demagogue  who  flatters  the  passions  of  the 
multitude,  but  only  wants  to  get  into  power  to  gratify  his  snobbish  love  of  rank, 
is  won  over  by  cheap  bribes  and  flattery  to  the  side  of  the  Duke,  against  whom  he 
has  plotted,  becomes  prime  minister,  and  when  the  insurrection  breaks  out  gives 
the  order  to  shoot  and  imprison  his  old  associates.  Then  comes  a  change  in  his 
fortunes:  the  Duke  needs  him  no  longer,  the  people  hiss  him.  He  is  ousted 
from  office,  and  leaves  the  stage  with  these  words :  "  Adieu ;  I  go  to  the  only 
country  where  talents  like  mine  are  appreciated, — to  France."  The  comedy, 
which  is  one  of  Sardou's  masterpieces,  was  tumultuously  received.  "  You  may 
imagine,"  says  an  eye-witness  in  a  letter  to  the  New  York  Nation, — "you  may 
imagine  the  mixed  feelings  of  a  French  audience  before  such  an  exhibition  :  the 
Bonapartists  have  taken  the  theatre  of  the  Vaudeville  for  their  head -quarters, 
and  they  cheer  for  ten  minutes  such  phrases  as  this :  '  Quand  une  soci6t6  est 
pourrie,  1'avocat  s'y  met.'  There  is  a  comical  account  of  the  insurrection  of 
Monaco,  where  one  government  is  formed  in  a  red  room,  another  in  a  green 
room,  another  in  a  yellow  room,  and  the  green,  red,  and  yellow  government* 
successively  proscribe  each  other.  This  transparent  allusion  to  the  scenes  in  the 
H6tel  de  Ville  on  the  4th  September,  the  31st  October,  and  the  18th  March  was 
cheered  with  fury.  So  far,  those  who  hiss  are  in  the  minority,  and  the  sergenta- 
de-ville,  whose  comrades  were  killed  under  the  Commune,  and  whose  wives  were 
fleeing  for  their  lives  at  that  period,  show  an  energy  in  the  repression  of  hisses 
which  is  not  very  surprising." 

C.  G.  also  asks,  "  What  is  the  difference  between  a  member  and  an  oflidtr 
of  the  French  Academy?  I  have  the  impression  that  to  be  made  an  offititr  of 
the  Academy  is  a  very  inferior  distinction  as  compared  with  that  of  being  a  full 
Academician."  Can  any  of  our  readers  answer  him  ? 


564  OUR  MONTHLY   GOSSIP. 

THE  Boston  Post  throws  a  little  additional  light  upon  a  matter  that  has  been 
under  discussion  in  this  department.  "  We  note  in  the  '  Monthly  Gossip,' "  it 
says,  "  a  question  as  to  the  long-sought  Spanish  drama  '  El  Embozado,'  men 
tioned  by  Medwin  to  Irving  on  the  strength  of  his  bad  memory,  and  afterward 
repeated  from  this  source  ad  nauseam  by  unscholarly  writers  who  should  have 
known  better.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  correspondent  is  right,  though  he  is 
not  half  positive  enough  in  identifying  this  mythical  drama  with  the  well-known 
'Purgatory  of  St.  Patrick,'  by  Calderon,  in  which,  if  he  will  consult  it,  he  will 
find  El  Embozado  is  a  character.  This  is  the  play  that  Shelley  read  and  which 
Medwin  misremembered  and  so  perplexed  Irving  and  half  a  score  of  writers  after 
him." 

Lippincott's  MONTHLY  GOSSIP, — I  have  been  greatly  interested  in  your  de 
partment  of  the  magazine,  and  in  talking  over  some  items  of  its  contents  the 
other  day  with  a  friend,  we  drifted  into  mention  of  Tennyson's  "  Princess." 

My  friend,  who  is  a  great  reader,  asked,  "  From  whom  did  Tennyson  get  his 
idea  of  that  poem?"  and  asseverated  he  had  found  a  very  distinct  outline  of  the 
"  Princess"  in  another  author  of  note. 

Now,  I  cannot  trace  this,  and  my  friend  provokingly  tells  me,  "Look  till 
you  do."  But,  having  done  what  I  could,  so  far,  I  apply  to  you  for  help,  and 
am  greatly  Your  debtor, 

C.  F.  ESTBRIDQB. 

Your  friend  may  have  been  thinking  of  the  following  passage  in  the  last 
chapter  of  Johnson's  "  Rasselas :"  "  The  Princess  thought  that  of  all  sublunary 
things  knowledge  was  the  best.  She  desired  first  to  learn  all  sciences,  and  then 
proposed  to  found  a  college  of  learned  women,  in  which  she  would  preside ;  that 
by  conversing  with  the  old  and  educating  the  young  she  might  divide  her  time 
between  the  acquisition  and  communication  of  wisdom  and  raise  up  for  the  next 
age  models  of  prudence  and  patterns  of  piety."  But  the  idea  of  a  university 
with  "  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  cleans,"  is  at  least  as  old  as  Margaret, 
Duchess  of  Newcastle's  "  A  Female  Academy,"  which  she  published  in  a  volume 
with  twenty  other  "  Comedies"  in  1662,  but  which  was  never  acted.  This  volume 
is  not  obtainable  in  any  library  to  which  the  Gossip  has  access.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  whether  a  copy  can  be  found  in  any  American  library,  so 
that  a  comparison  might  be  instituted  between  Tennyson  and  the  Duchess. 

J.  U.  M.  is  informed  that  the  novel  and  the  play  "La  Dame  aux  Cam61ias" 
were  both  from  the  pen  of  Dumas  fils,  the  novel  being  written  first  in  184S.  The 
elder  Dumas  was  opposed  to  its  dramatization,  but  when  the  author  had  been 
shown  the  manuscript  of  a  coarse  melodrama,  founded  on  his  novel,  he  at  once 
set  to  work  on  his  own  version.  Theatre  after  theatre  rejected  it,  however,  and 
it  was  not  till  February  2,  1852,  that  it  appeared  at  the  Vaudeville  in  Paris,  to 
run  for  a  hundred  nights  or  more.  J.  U.  M.'s  letter  was  received  so  late  that  hia 
other  question  will  have  to  remain  unanswered  until  next  month. 

THE  ONE   HUNDRED   PRIZE   QUESTION'S. 

THE  series  of  questions  for  the  best  and  fullest  solutions  to  which  prizes 
amounting  to  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  were  offered  in  our  February 
number  is  continued  in  the  following  tlwenty  questions : 


BOOK-TALK.  565 

41.  What  event  is  celebrated  in  Longfellow's  "Hymn  of  the  Moravian 
Nuns"  ? 

42.  Whence  the  expression  "  eating  crow"  ? 

43.  Who  was  the  original  of  Rebecca  in  "  Ivanhoe"  ? 

44.  Whence  the  proverb  "  Blood  is  thicker  than  water"  ? 

45.  What  city  was  destroyed  by  silence  ? 

46.  Whence  the  expression  "  It  suits  to  a  T"  ? 

47.  Who  was  the  original  Blue-Beard  ? 

48.  Whence  the  phrase  "  A  tempest  in  a  teapot"? 

49.  What  is  the  origin  of  the  name  Mephistopheles  ? 

50.  Whence  the  expression  "  Dolce  far  niente"  ? 

51.  Where  is  Adam's  Peak,  and  what  legends  cluster  round  itT 

52.  What  was  the  name  of  the  "  simple  village  maiden"  whom  the  "  Lord 
of  Burleigh"  married? 

53.  What  was  the  legend  of  the  Seven  Golden  Cities  ? 

54.  Who  was  Herne  the  Hunter? 

55.  What  is  the  origin  of  the  weather-cock  ? 

56.  Whence  the  phrase  "  Good  wine  needs  no  bush"  T 

57.  What  is  the  origin  of  Harlequin? 

58.  Whence  the  expression  "  A  little  bird  told  me"  ? 

59.  What  is  a  baker's  dozen,  and  how  did  it  originate? 

60.  Whence  the  proverb  "  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss"  ? 

The  Gossip  regrets  that  an  error  crept  into  the  first  list  of  questions.  Num 
ber  20,  instead  of  reading,  "  What  is  the  ceremony  of  Blessing  the  Pyx  ?"  should 
read, — 

No.  20.  What  is  the  ceremony  of  the  Trial  of  the  Pyx  ? 

In  answer  to  many  inquiries,  the  Gossip  would  respectfully  advise  his  corre 
spondents  that  no  fuller  information  can  be  vouchsafed  to  competitors  than  ia 
already  given  in  the  questions  themselves.  To  enter  into  a  private  correspond 
ence  with  any  one  of  them  would  manifestly  be  unfair  to  the  others. 


BOOK-TALK. 


rE  self-styled  realistic  novelists  in  America  are  fond  of  proclaiming  them 
selves  the  advance-guard  of  a  continuous  literary  movement  which  has 
culminated  in  "Daisy  Miller"  and  "Silas  Laphara."  This  is  as  it  should  be. 
The  amiable  delusion  of  all  intellectual  leaders  is  that  to  them  has  been 
intrusted  the  saying  of  the  final  and  clinching  word.  But  they  lose  sight  of 
the  great  principle  of  action  and  reaction  by  which  man's  efforts  are  directed. 
The  course  of  human  thought  runs  in  cycles.  If  one  generation  is  poetical,  im 
aginative,  idealistic,  the  next  is  prosaic,  critical,  realistic;  and  vice  vena.  The 
age  of  great  things  done  carelessly  is  followed  by  the  age  of  small  things  done 
carefully;  and  vice  versa.  One  generation  considers  the  matter,  the  other  the 
manner;  one  the  value  of  the  thing  itself,  the  other  the  elegance  of  the  setting. 


566  BOOK-TALK. 

An  age  of  earnest  and  serious  purpose  is  preceded  as  well  as  followed  by  an  age 
of  mockery  or  frivolity,  an  age  of  poetry  by  one  of  prose.  The  extravagant 
idealism  of  the  early  Spanish  romances  was  succeeded  by  the  humorous  realism 
of  "  Don  Quixote"  and  the  picaresque  novels.  The  careless  strength  and 
grandeur  of  the  Elizabethan  poets  finds  its  contrast  in  the  airy  nothings,  the 
elaborate  felicities,  of  the  Queen  Anne  men.  The  sonorous  voices  of  the  early 
Victorians  have  given  place  to  the  limpid  tones  of  the  later  Victorians,  Of 
course  the  general  truth  is  but  crudely  indicated  here.  The  classifications  are 
not  precise.  A  pioneer  like  Keats  may  appear  before  the  reaction  has  set  in,  a 
veteran  like  Browning  may  survive  to  become  the  prophet  of  a  new  reaction. 
America  has  proved  no  exception  to  this  general  law.  The  literature  which 
began  with  Washington  Irving  and  other  pleasant  imitators  of  Addison,  Steele, 
and  Goldsmith  soon  broadened  and  deepened  into  the  romance  of  Hawthorne, 
the  philosophy  of  Emerson,  the  poetry  of  Walt  Whitman,  and  is  now  reverting 
to  its  former  tendencies  in  the  elegant  trifling  of  Howells  and  James.  There 
are  signs  in  the  air  that  a  new  reaction  will  soon  set  in,  or  mayhap  has  already 
begun.  But  what  will  be  the  final  outcome  of  the  struggle,  and  whether,  when 
Earth  is  wan  and  her  cities  have  no  sound  nor  tread,  the  Last  Man  shall  stand 
amid  the  skeletons  of  nations  with  a  romance  or  a  realistic  novel — with  Haw 
thorne  or  Howells — in  his  hand, — these,  indeed,  are  questions  not  lightly  to  be 
answered. 

Evolution  means  progress,  and  where  the  vulgar  eye  sees  only  in  the  recur 
rence  of  similar  phenomena  the  return  of  the  wheels  of  being  to  the  old  groove, 
a  deeper  philosophical  insight  recognizes  an  infinitesimal  gain  at  each  new  revo 
lution.  No  great  movement  has  been  unmixed  good.  Every  reaction  frees  the 
human  mind  from  a  small  portion  of  the  error  that  accompanied  the  original 
movement,  while  the  error  in  the  reaction  calls  in  turn  for  elimination  by  a 
similar  process. 

Every  thinking  man  has  within  him  the  possibility  of  becoming  either  an 
idealist  or  a  realist,  and  not  so  much  his  own  volition  as  the  accident  of  birth 
and  environment  shall  decide  the  question  for  him.  Faust,  whom  Goethe  makes 
the  type  of  the  aspiring  nature  in  man,  says  of  himself, — 

Two  souls,  alaa  !  reside  within  my  breast, 

And  each  withdraws  from,  and  repels,  its  brother. 

One  with  tenacious  organs  holds  in  love 

And  clinging  lust  the  world  in  its  embraces ; 

The  other  strongly  sweeps  his  dust  above 

Into  the  high  ancestral  spaces. 

Every  thinking  man  at  the  outset  of  his  career,  at  least,  is  conscious  of  this 
twofold  soul.  But  whichever  soul  external  forces  may  elect  that  he  develop  will 
be  developed  at  the  expense  of  the  other.  For  "  each  withdraws  from,  and  repels, 
its  brother."  Only  by  concentrating  his  energies  within  the  mental  and  moral 
limitations  of  either  one  or  the  other  can  he  hope  to  do  any  efficient  work.  To 
very  few  intellects,  to  here  and  there  a  Goethe  or  an  Emerson,  is  it  given  to  be 
at  once  symmetrical  and  strong.  Most  men  purchase  symmetry  at  the  expense 
ot  strength,  or  strength  at  the  expense  of  symmetry.  For  the  intellectual  leader 
strength  is  the  prime  requisite;  he  must  sacrifice  symmetry;  he  must  be  content 
to  be  a  half  man.  If  he  becomes  an  idealist,  he  will  hate  and  dislike  the  real ;  if 


BOOK-TALK.  567 

a  realist,  he  will  hate  and  dislike  the  ideal.  Abstractly  speaking,  his  hatred  will 
be  wrong.  But  the  measure  of  our  hatred  is  the  measure  of  our  love.  A  good 
hater  is  a  more  doughty  warrior  than  an  amiable  pococurante.  For  the  sake 
of  the  intense  love  which  enables  a  great  man  to  do  his  work,  we  pardon  that 
hatred  for  all  objects  external  to  his  range  of  vision  by  which  he  walls  in  his  love 
and  keeps  it  strong  and  deep.  The  fruits  of  love  endure,  they  are  brought  forth 
in  light  and  knowledge ;  the  fruits  of  hatred  perish,  they  are  produced  in  darkness 
and  ignorance. 

A  stern  contempt  for  the  simpler  humanities  of  life  has  ever  been  the  note 
of  the  idealist.  He  enshrouds  himself  in  his  own  virtue,  his  stomach  revolts  at 
cakes  and  ale.  We  who  dwell  within  earshot  of  the  market,  who  live  and  move 
and  have  our  being  amid  the  Philistines,  are  repelled  by  the  haughty  language 
in  which  Plato,  Schiller,  Milton,  or  Carlyle  speaks  of  the  common  folk  whom 
we  love  and  marry,  whom  we  invite  to  our  fireside,  who  are  our  brethren,  our 
friends,  our  acquaintances,  mayhap  our  taskmasters.  We  are  repelled;  yet  in 
our  saner  moments  we  recognize  that  it  is  this  haughtiness  of  attitude  which 
keeps  the  poet  and  the  seer  unspotted  from  the  world  and  enables  them  to  do  the 
thinking  that  shall  purify  the  world.  "  It  is  not  that  we  love  to  be  alone,"  says 
Thoreau,  "  but  that  we  love  to  soar ;  the  company  grows  thinner  and  thinner  till 
there  is  none  at  all.  It  is  either  the  tribune  on  the  plain,  a  sermon  on  the  mount, 
or  a  very  private  ecstasy  still  higher  up.  We  are  none  the  less  to  aim  at  the 
summits,  though  the  multitude  does  not  ascend  there."  The  saying  has  its  truth, 
but  not  the  whole  truth.  The  ecstasy  on  the  heights  is  excellent,  but  the  sermon 
on  the  mount,  the  tribune  on  the  plain,  are  likewise  excellent.  It  is  noble  to  soar, 
it  is  noble  also  to  descend  that  we  may  meet.  The  message  which  the  saint  in 
his  ecstasy  has  wrested  from  the  infinite  must  be  interpreted  to  the  hundreds  on 
the  mount,  to  the  thousands  on  the  plain,  otherwise  it  is  of  no  worth.  Doubtless 
it  will  be  shorn  of  some  part  of  its  glory  at  each  successive  transmission,  but  if 
only  a  single  ray  reaches  the  multitude  they  are  to  that  extent  bettered.  To  that 
extent  the  saint  has  not  lived  and  suffered  in  vain. 

All  religion,  philosophy,  art,  heroism,  is  the  attempt  of  the  individual  to 
make  intelligible  to  some  other  soul — in  concrete  moral,  in  uttered  word,  in 
carven  stone,  in  acted  deed — that  vision  of  the  perfect  which  suffuses  his  being. 
If  he  considered  the  masses  and  strove  to  reach  them,  the  magnitude  of  his  task 
would  overwhelm  him,  his  tongue  would  cleave  to  his  mouth,  his  hand  would 
lose  its  cunning.  But  he  scorns  the  masses  as  Philistines,  children  of  darkness, 
unregenerate  sinners,  and  his  very  scorn  nerves  him  to  fashion  his  revelation  in 
some  form  that  will  appeal  to  the  chosen  few, — the  elect  whom  alone  he  deems 
it  his  mission  to  save.  He  does  not  know,  it  is  as  well  he  should  not  know,  that 
these  few  in  the  course  of  the  seasons  will  enlighten  the  many. 

Let  us  vary  the  metaphor.  The  great  thinker  scales  the  mountain-side,  and 
delves  deep  into  its  caverns  for  the  ore  of  truth.  What  cares  he  that  the  un 
thinking  multitude  are  surging  and  wrangling  at  its  base?  what  cares  he  though 
he  have  only  strength  to  bear  his  precious  burden  to  the  surface?  There  at  the 
surface  it  will  be  seen  and  recognized  at  its  value  by  the  one  or  two  strenuous 
spirits  who  have  followed  in  his  truces.  That  thought  heartens  him  to  his  task. 
But  his  followers  have  also  their  appointed  task.  Theira  it  is  to  bear  the  nugget 


568  BOOK-TALK. 

down  into  the  market  where  it  shall  eventually  be  cleansed  of  all  dross,  be  rent 
into  fragments,  and  pass  into  the  common  currency. 

Thought*  that  great  hearts  ODce  broke  for,  w« 

Breathe  cheaply  in  the  common  air. 
The  dust  we  trample  heedlessly 

Throbbed  once  in  saints  and  heroes  rare, 
Who  perished,  opening  for  their  race 
New  pathways  to  the  commonplace. 

The  oracle  has  its  interpreters.  Buddha  has  his  prophets,  Goethe  his  com 
mentators,  Shakespeare  his  Gervinus,  Kant  his  Cousin.  Cousin  and  Gervinua, 
commentator,  prophet,  and  interpreter,  each  in  his  own  way  is  doing  work  as 
urgent  as  that  of  his  master.  Macaulay  has  been  somewhat  sneeringly  called 
an  ambassador  from  the  educated  few  to  the  uneducated  many.  The  sneer  is  in 
fact  his  highest  applause,  the  curse  is  a  blessing.  We  reverence  the  discoverei, 
but  the  pioneer,  the  settler,  the  colonist,  the  citizen,  who  succeed  him  form  each 
an  indispensable  link  in  a  mighty  chain.  Nature  looks  with  equal  eye  on  all. 

This,  then,  is  the  history  of  all  intellectual  progress.  The  man  who  lives  on 
the  higher  plane  of  his  own  being,  who  with  mighty  efforts  has  surmounted  com 
monplaces,  traditions,  and  conventions  (surmounted,  not  skirted  their  base),  and 
who  has  strength  enough  to  carry  his  intelligence  a  furlong  further  into  chaos, 
to  snatch  from  the  formless  and  the  void  the  thought  that  shall  revolutionize 
society  in  the  coming  generations,  rarely  has  strength  enough  also  to  mould  it 
into  the  logical  and  verbal  perfection  which  will  appeal  to  all  educated  and 
thinking  men.  Hence  the  obscurity  that  is  complained  of  in  a  Browning,  a 
Whitman,  even  an  Emerson.  But  other  men  struggling  towards  the  same  goal, 
who  have  had  their  steps  directed  and  their  pathway  smoothed  by  the  original 
explorer,  can  use  their  untaxed  energies  in  giving  form  and  symmetry  to  the  new 
truth.  These  men  may  even  have  more  strength  and  use  it  more  tellingly  than 
the  men  who  live  on  what  we  have  called  the  higher  plane.  Tennyson  is  a  greater 
poet  than  Whitman,  though  Whitman's  chief  concern  is  with  the  idea,  and 
Tennyson's  with  forms  of  expression.  The  discoverer  of  the  felicitous  word  is 
as  original  as  the  discoverer  of  the  new  idea,  and  may  be  the  greater  man  of 
the  two. 

Nature,  indeed,  refuses  to  be  classified,  she  laughs  at  scientific  precision.  You 
cannot  draw  lines  through  the  rainbow,  and  say  here  yellow  begins  and  green  ends. 
The  same  difficulty  attends  any  effort  to  distinguish  sharply  idealist  from  realist. 
Hitherto  we  have  been  endeavoring  in  a  broad  and  general  way  to  indicate  the 
progress  of  the  idea  in  the  great  creative  period, — the  idealistic  period.  To  fall 
back  upon  Thoreau's  figure,  the  idealistic  is  that  period  when  the  ecstatic  vision 
is  revealed  and  interpreted  to  the  hundreds  on  the  mount.  But  its  mission  is 
not  yet  ended,  the  thousands  on  the  plain  must  be  reached,  the  idea  must  become 
a  part  of  the  heritage  of  man.  The  thoughts  that  great  hearts  have  broken  for 
must  be  breathed  cheaply  in  the  common  air,  else  the  great  hearts  have  broken 
in  vain.  Saints  and  heroes  rare  have  perished  in  vain  unless  they  have  succeeded 
in  opening  for  their  race 

New  pathways  to  the  commonplace. 

Therefore  the  creative  period  is  followed  by  the  critical,  the  assimilative,  the 
realistic  period,  when  the  idea  is  dissected  and  analyzed  by  the  critic ;  played 


BOOK-TALK.  559 

upon  by  the  kaleidoscopic  fancy  of  the  humorist  and  the  artist  in  words;  sneered 
at  by  the  cynic ;  discussed,  angrily  and  doubtfully  at  first,  but  later  with  wiser 
apprehension,  by  the  Philistine,  until  at  last  its  benign  influence  permeates 
everywhere. 

On  the  realist  the  necessity  of  limiting  himself,  of  sacrificing  symmetry  to 
strength,  presses  as  heavily  as  on  the  idealist.  He  must  ignore  the  higher 
reaches  of  the  intelligence,  he  must  take  no  share  in  the  newer  gospels,  he  must 
shut  out  the  future  and  accept  the  present.  What  we  call  the  ideal  is  in  fact  a 
dim  prophetic  picture  of  the  future.  When  the  future  comes  it  will  not  be  ex 
actly  like  any  man's  ideal.  Yet  at  present  the  ideal  is  the  nearest  approach  we 
can  make  towards  picturing  the  future.  It  looms  up  from  the  mist  with  uncertain 
outlines  as  the  goal  for  our  attainment,  and  the  wisest  cannot  determine  if  it  be 
a  mirage  or  no.  The  realist  wants  firmer  and  more  tangible  truth :  he  finds  it 
in  the  present,  in  the  world  of  custom  around  us. 

While  the  idealist  is  busy  with  the  transcendental,  the  uncommon,  the  mys 
terious,  the  fantastic,  the  exceptional  in  nature  (knowing  that  by  her  exceptions 
nature  proves  her  rules),  with  morbid  anatomy,  with  psychological  problems, 
with  the  higher  emotions  and  passions,  with  shapes  of  supernal  beauty  that 
represent  to  his  fancy  what  humanity  ought  to  be,  and  with  heroic  and  romantic 
actions  that  represent  what  it  ought  to  do,  the  realist  prefers  to  deal  with  man 
and  nature  in  their  wonted  moods,  to  take  humanity  as  it  is,  to  describe  what  it 
does.  He  accepts  the  conventions,  proprieties,  manners  of  the  present  as  some 
thing  fixed  .and  absolute.  Words  harden  into  things  for  him.  He  scouts  at  the 
notion  that  great  men  should  be  a  law  to  themselves,  forgetting  that  it  is  because 
great  men  of  old  did  break  through  the  conventions  and  traditions  of  their  time 
that  we  have  any  religion,  any  code  of  morals  at  all.  He  accepts  the  results  of 
great  thinking  in  the  past,  but  only  when  they  have  become  part  of  the  mental 
equipment  of  all  educated  men,  when  custom  has  sanctioned  them.  Macaulay 
sees  in  the  orphic  sayings  of  Kant,  Carlyle,  and  Emerson  a  deliberate  attempt 
at  being  unintelligible.  Howells,  who  comes  later,  accepts  Carlyle  and  Emerson, 
but  rejects  Browning. 

It  may  at  first  sight  seem  odd  to  rank  Macaulay  among  the  realists.  Yet 
the  realists  of  to-day  are  the  legitimate  posterity  of  Macaulay  and  Thackeray. 
Howells,  indeed,  has  claimed  descent  from  George  Eliot  and  Hawthorne,  but 
George  Eliot  is  one  of  those  rare  spirits  who  refuse  to  be  classified  and  from 
whom  realist  and  idealist  alike  may  learn.  Hawthorne  is  as  distinctly  an  idealist 
as  Tennyson ; — to  the  modern  Americans  he  has  imparted  only  certain  graces  of 
style.  Thackeray  has  defined  his  own  mental  position  in  Pendennis,  who  had 
reached  "a  belief  qualified  with  scorn  in  all  things  extant:"  (cf.  Emerson,  who 
in  his  own  pithy  way  sums  up  Thackeray's  philosophy  thus :  "  We  must  renounce 
ideals  and  accept  London.")  Macaulay's  hospitality  towards  things  extant  has 
no  dash  of  scorn.  His  attitude  is  that  of  the  comfortable  British  Philistine 
accepting  current  faiths,  current  traditions,  without  inquiring  into  their  basis. 
The  better  fashion  of  the  moment  represents  abstract  truth  to  him.  He  has 
no  court  of  appeal  at  which  to  reverse  the  judgments  of  the  past.  There  is 
something  very  characteristic  in  his  favorite  trick  of  comparing  with  each  other 
ths  famous  men  of  literature  or  history  and  according  to  each  his  precise  share 
of  glory,  as  if  the  sliding  scale  of  his  own  time  were  unalterable.  And  as  in  this 


570  HOOK-TALK. 

way  he  husbanded  the  energy  that  might  have  been  utilized  in  examining  into 
premises,  he  could  devote  all  his  powers  to  expounding  and  (in  the  better  sense) 
vulgarizing  conclusions. 

And  this  is  the  mission  of  the  realist.  He  suppresses  that  soul  within  him 
which  would  soar  into  the  high  ancestral  spaces,  he  develops  that  soul  which 

With  tenacious  organs  holds  in  love 

And  clinging  lust  the  world  in  its  embraces. 

It  is  the  latter  soul  Howells  has  cultivated  most  assiduously,  withdrawing  from 
and  repelling  that  other  soul  which  found  expression  in  many  of  his  youthful 
poems,  played  fitfully  about  "  A  Foregone  Conclusion,"  and  flared  up  for  a 
moment,  just  before  its  final  extinction,  in  "  The  Undiscovered  Country."  His 
hate,  too,  is  the  measure  of  his  love.  He  distrusts  the  ideal  as  heartily  as  the 
idealist  distrusts  the  real.  The  author  of  "  The  Pilot's  Story"  is  found  in  his 
maturer  age  speaking  in  these  terms  of  poetry :  "  There  are  black  moments  when, 
honestly  between  ourselves  and  the  reader,  the  spectacle  of  any  mature  lady  or 
gentleman  proposing  to  put  his  or  her  thoughts  and  feelings  into  rhymes  affects 
us  much  as  the  sight  of  some  respected  person  might  if  we  met  him  jigging  or 
caracoling  down  the  street  instead  of  modestly  walking."  To  be  sure,  one  must 
not  take  this  jesting  too  seriously.  Yet  it  seems  the  sort  of  jest  that  conceals 
the  sincere  word.  And  at  all  events  it  aptly  illustrates  the  prevailing  mood  of 
the  realist,  the  impulse  to  look  upon  his  fellows  from  the  stand-point  of  clothes 
and  manners.  Paterfamilias,  honest,  respectable,  humdrum, — that'  is  the  true 
man  to  the  realist.  Paterfamilias's  proper  speech  is  prose,  just  as  his  proper 
movement  is  a  walk.  Yet  there  is  something  beneath  the  conventional  man  in 
the  tailor-made  clothes  which  at  times  will  out,  and  in  rhythmic  words,  in 
rhythmic  movements,  he  somehow  seems  to  express  a  higher  and  truer  and  even 
a  more  real  self.  Society  is  but  a  thin  crust  of  custom  laid  over  volcanic  passions. 
"  O  Heaven !"  says  Teufelsdrockh  in  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  "  it  is  awful  to  consider 
that  we  not  only  carry  each  a  future  Ghost  within  him ;  but  are,  in  very  deed, 
Ghosts !  These  Limbs,  whence  had  we  them  ;  this  stormy  Force  ;  this  life-blood 
with  its  burning  Passion?  They  are  dust  and  shadow ;  a  Shadow-system  gathered 
round  our  ME;  wherein,  through  some  moments  or  years,  the  Divine  Essence  is 
to  be  revealed  in  the  Flesh."  So  speaks  the  idealist.  He  looks  at  man  from 
within, — the  realist,  from  without.  The  shadow-system  is  Howells's  concern. 
Paterfamilias,  with  his  whiskers,  his  clothes,  his  prayer-book,  and  his  small  talk, 
represents  the  real  man  to  him,  not  the  awful  Divine  Essence  beneath  the  sim 
ulacrum,  which  but  for  the  accident  of  birth,  the  specious  phenomena  of  time 
and  space,  might  have  taken  on  some  totally  different  simulacrum,  might  have 
been  clothed  in  the  flesh  of  Mussulman,  Hindoo,  or  Cannibal,  and  still  been  the 
same  ME. 

The  realist  is,  in  fact,  another  symptom  of  the  prevailing  agnosticism.  He, 
too,  aims  to  confine  himself  within  the  limits  of  the  knowable.  Paterfamilias 
may  be  a  simulacrum,  yet  it  is  his  features  that  the  photographing  sun  binds 
upon  cunningly  prepared  paper,  hit  traits  that  we  most  readily  discuss  and  de 
fine  in  the  arbitrary  collocation  of  sounds  which  we  call  language.  Paterfamilias, 
the  photograph,  language, — these  things  our  senses  testify  to,  and  the  agnostic 
accepts  no  other  testimony.  Here,  to  be  sure,  is  a  measure  of  truth.  Yet,  after 


BOOK-TALK.  571 

all,  these  things, — will  they  be  to-morrow  as  they  are  to-day  ?  Will  language 
and  the  photograph  report  the  same  Paterfamilias?  nay,  will  it  be  the  same 
language  and  the  same  photograph  ?  Let  us  trust  that  all  will  have  developed 
into  higher  things,  that  as  progress  has  been  the  law  of  the  past  it  will  be  the 
law  of  the  future.  Idealism  is  an  effort  towards  the  future,— it  is  the  salient 
energy ;  realism,  as  Emerson  says  of  conservatism,  the  pause  on  the  last  move 
ment. 

Yet  the  pause,  too,  is  right.  We  must  take  breath,  we  must  allow  our  fellows 
to  catch  up  with  us.  Progress  means  not  the  progress  of  the  individual,  but  of 
the  race.  Differentiation  is  a  temporary  expedient ;  the  aim  of  nature  is  solidarity. 
To  borrow  two  ugly  words  from  Herbert  Spencer,  we  proceed  from  a  crass  homo 
geneity,  through  heterogeneity,  to  a  fully-developed  homogeneity.  Man,  who 
began  in  lawless  democracy,  could  only  through  the  successive  stages  of  oligar 
chies,  despotisms,  monarchies,  reach  the  highly-organized  democracy  whose 
promise  we  see  to-day. 

God  is  a  democrat ;  he  loves  the  child  of  the  idea  no  better  than  he  does 
the  Philistine.  The  realist's  love  for  the  Philistine  places  him,  by  so  much, 
nearer  to  God.  Moses  by  wrath  and  haughtiness  forfeited  to  Joshua  the 
privilege  of  leading  the  people  into  the  promised  land.  The  realist  is  the 
modern  Joshua.  He  estimates  himself  more  humbly  than  the  idealist.  His  own 
preferences  are  less  likely  to  represent  general  principles  to  him.  If  he  does  not 
like  cakes  and  ale,  he  at  least  has  no  scorn  for  his  brother  who  does.  "  Ah  !  poor 
Real  Life  which  I  love,"  cries  Howells,  in  his  earliest  novel  "  Their  Wedding 
Journey,"  "  can  I  make  others  share  the  delight  I  find  in  thy  foolish  and  insipid 
face '?"  Howells's  dislike  of  the  ideal  largely  arises  from  its  intellectual  phari- 
aeeism,  its  uucharitableness  to  common  folk,  its  glorification  of  genius  into  an 
aristocracy  that  can  do  no  wrong.  "  We  do  not  despair,"  says  the  Editor's  Study, 
"  of  the  day  when  the  poor  honest  herd  of  humankind  shall  give  universal  utter 
ance  to  the  universal  instinct,  and  shall  hold  selfish  power  in  politics,  in  art,  in 
religion,  for  the  devil  that  it  is;  when  neither  its  crazy  pride  nor  its  amusing 
vanity  shall  be  flattered  by  the  puissance  of  the  '  geniuses'  who  have  forgotten 
their  duty  to  the  common  weakness  and  have  abused  it  to  their  own  glory.  In 
that  day  we  shall  shudder  at  many  monsters  of  passion,  of  self-indulgence,  of 
heartlessness,  whom  we  still  more  or  less  openly  adore  for  their  'genius,'  and  shall 
account  no  man  worshipful  whom  we  do  not  feel  and  know  to  be  good."  Else 
where  the  Study  rejoices  that  "  the  penetrating  spirit  of  democracy  has  found  its 
expression  in  the  very  quality  of  literature ;  the  old  oligarchic  republic  of  letters 
ifl  passing;  already  we  have  glimpses  of  the  Commune."  And  still  again  the 
owner  of  the  Study  exhorts  us  to  consider  the  view  of  a  correspondent  who  looked 
upon  novel-reading  as  an  amusement,  like  horse-racing  or  card-playing,  for 
which  he  had  no  time  when  he  entered  upon  the  serious  business  of  life,  and 
"  not  to  dismiss  it  with  high  literary  scorn  as  that  of  some  Boeotian  dull  to  the 
beauty  of  art," — which  indeed  is  the  lordly  manner  of  the  Idealist.  "  Refuse 
it  as  we  may,  it  is  still  the  feeling  of  the  vast  majority  of  people  for  whom  life 
is  earnest,  and  who  find  only  a  distorted  and  misleading  likeness  of  it  in  our 
books.  We  may  fold  ourselves  in  our  gowns  and  close  the  doors  of  our  studies, 
and  affect  to  despise  this  rude  voice ;  but  we  cannot  shut  it  out."  To  Matthew 
Arnold,  for  example,  the  voices  of  the  vast  majority  are  as  sounding  brass,  only 
the  remnant  are  worth  considering. 


572  BOOK-TALK. 

East  and  West  are  contraries,  yet  in  order  to  go  north  the  ship  must  tack 
first  to  the  east  and  then  to  the  west.  The  East  cries,  "  Lo,  here  is  the  way!" 
and  the  West  cries,  "  Lo,  here  is  the  way  I"  but  the  mariner  knows  that  he  can 
not  give  implicit  credence  to  either,  though  he  must  yield  a  half-faith  to  both. 
And  as  he  follows  the  north  star  by  sailing  first  to  the  east  and  then  to  the  west, 
so  man  travels  his  appointed  path,  through  continuous  action  and  reaction, — from 
radicalism  to  conservatism,  from  idealism  to  realism, — with  the  net  result  of 
keeping  on  the  straight  line  of  truth. 

A  curious  contrast  suggests  itself  between  £mile  Zola's  "La  Terre"  (G. 
Oharpentier,  Paris)  and  Harold  Frederic's  "  Seth's  Brother's  Wife"  (Scribners). 
Both  are  "  realistic"  novels.  Both  are  studies  of  country  life, — one  in  France  and 
the  other  in  America.  Zola's  picture  is  literally  the  naked  truth ;  in  Frederic's 
the  truth  is  veiled  and  clothed  in  the  conventional  garb  which  the  American 
novelist  is  obliged  to  assume.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  average  morality  of  the 
American  peasantry  is  superior  to  that  of  the  French.  But  no  American  novelist 
would  be  allowed  to  dwell  upon  this  phase  of  our  country  life.  We  need  not 
now  discuss  whether  this  is  or  is  not  for  the  best.  The  startling  thing  is  that 
with  all  Zola's  frankness,  his  nastiness,  if  you  will,  indeed,  with  all  his  exagger 
ation, — for  Zola  does  give  unnecessary  prominence  to  mere  wickedness, — the 
country  life  he  pictures  is  not  so  repellent,  so  raw,  so  depressingly  coarse  and 
ugly,  as  the  country  life  of  Mr.  Frederic's  novel.  Partly,  of  course,  this  is  owing 
to  the  fact  that  Zola  is  a  great  genius,  and  Frederic  only  a  man  of  considerable 
talent  (a  genius  cannot  help  coloring  his  work  with  the  high  lights  of  his  own 
imagination),  but  in  far  greater  measure  it  is  due  to  the  fact  which  Hawthorne 
often  commented  upon,  that  our  country  is  as  yet  too  young  and  too  crude  to 
afford  a  lodgment  for  the  romantic  or  the  poetical.  Life  outside  of  our  great 
cities  is  crass,  unformed,  uncouth  :  the  picturesque  element  can  only  be  added  by 
time.  Mr.  Frederic  has  given  us  a  truthful  sketch.  But  we  infinitely  prefer 
Zola.  And  if  you  want  to  contrast  American  with  French  country  life  you 
should  obtain  not  Zola  in  the  original,  but  Zola  in  George  D.  Cox's  translation 
(Petersons),  which  leaves  out  the  nastiness,  with  no  serious  detriment  to  an  ex 
ceptionally  strong  and  powerful  piece  of  fiction. 

A  very  curious  book,  entitled  "It  is  the  Law,"  has  been  written  by  T.  E. 
Willson.  A  young  gentleman  who  is  uncertain  whether  he  is  in  love  with  a  mar 
ried  woman  or  his  own  aunt,  but  overwhelms  them  both  with  caresses,  an  uncle 
who  marries  his  niece  when  she  is  only  twelve  and  beguiles  the  honey-moon  by 
telling  her  unclean  stories,  gentlemen  with  two  wives,  each  of  whom  is  the  only 
legal  wife  within  the  boundaries  of  different  States,  gentlemen  with  three  wives, 
ladies  with  two  husbands,  and  ladies  with  three  husbands,  all  in  the  same  delight 
ful  predicament,  and  all  continually  weaving  themselves  into  the  woof  of  each 
other's  lives,  form  such  a  curious  net-work  of  adultery  and  incest,  within  the 
limits  of  lawful  wedlock,  that  the  reader  finds  it  difficult  to  keep  the  thread  of 
the  story,  especially  as  the  novel,  though  clever  in  parts,  is  thrown  together 
hastily  and  inartistically.  The  evident  aim  of  the  author  has  been  to  call  at 
tention  to  the  shameful  condition  of  our  marriage  and  divorce  laws,  and,  by  in 
ference,  to  urge  the  necessity  of  Federal  intervention. 


CURRENT  NOTES.  573 


CUKKENT  NOTES. 


IT  is  time  that  respectable  merchants  combined  with  consumers  for  the  sup 
pression  of  all  gift,  prize,  and  lottery  schemes  in  connection  with  the  sale  of 
articles  of  merchandise.  These  schemes  are  not  only  demoralizing  to  legitimate 
business  and  to  the  morals  of  the  community,  but  in  the  extent  to  which  they 
are  being  carried  in  the  sale  of  articles  of  food  have  become  a  source  of  great 
danger  to  the  public  health.  They  are,  no  matter  in  what  form  they  appear, 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  devices  to  swindle  honest  and  unsuspecting  people. 

It  is  gratifying  to  learn  that  in  some  instances  the  officers  of  the  law  have 
taken  hold  of  the  matter.  In  New  York,  and  also  in  Chicago,  parties  who  in 
this  way  offered  gifts  to  purchasers  of  their  packages  have  recently  been  arrested 
upon  indictments  for  lottery  swindling.  The  latest  candidates,  both  for  public 
execration  and  criminal  prosecution,  are  the  manufacturers  of  the  alum  baking 
powders,  who  are,  both  by  means  of  gifts  and  lottery  tickets,  disposing  of  large 
quantities  of  their  corrosively  poisonous  compounds,  which  are  so  well  known 
to  be  detrimental  to  health  that  no  housekeeper  will  admit  them  to  her  kitchen 
knowingly.  This  form  of  swindle  is  not  only  being  peddled  from  house  to  house, 
but,  under  the  promise  of  large  profits  to  be  realized,  the  manufacturers  are  in 
trenching  themselves  behind  the  counters  of  many  grocers  by  getting  them  to 
offer  the  alum  goods  with  the  gifts  or  lottery  tickets  attached,  thereby  shifting 
the  liability  to  prosecution,  in  part,  upon  other  and  perhaps  innocent  parties. 
Every  grocer  or  dealer,  for  instance,  who  sells  or  offers  for  sale  any  of  the  prize 
or  lottery  baking  powders  is  a  criminal  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  liable,  upon 
conviction,  to  fine  and  imprisonment,  while  those  who  sell  the  gift  goods  are, 
morally,  as  responsible,  for  they  are  offering  an  inducement,  or  prize,  to  house 
keepers  to  use  a  food  that  contains  a  corrosive  poison.  This  is  a  predicament  in 
which  it  is  not  possible  that  merchants  will  care  to  place  themselves  when  they 
come  to  think  seriously  of  the  matter. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  every  one  of  these  gift  or  prize  baking  pow 
ders  are  alum  baking  powders.  These  powders  cost  less  than  four  cents  a  pound 
to  produce ;  the  gift  or  prize  costs  but  a  few  cents  more.  They  are  sold  at  the 
price  of  a  first-class  baking  powder,  so  that  the  swindle,  in  a  commercial  sense, 
is  enormous.  But  the  chief  iniquity  of  the  business  consists  in  selling,  as  pre 
sumably  wholesome,  an  article  of  a  positively  injurious  character,  and  by  means 
of  gifta  or  bribes  inducing  servants  or  unsuspecting  housekeepers  to  purchase 
and  use  it  in  our  daily  food. 

There  should  be  some  prompt  method  of  reaching  these  dangerous  practices 
and  punishing  the  parties  engaged  in  their  promotion.  If  the  present  laws  are 
not  ample,  we  commend  the  matter  to  the  consideration  of  our  State  Board  of 
Health  for  recommendation  of  such  additional  legislation  as  shall  be  effective 
for  the  protection  of  the  public. 

"  A  MISS  is  as  good  as  a  mile,"  a  proverb  which  in  ita  present  form  is  non 
sense,  is  therefore  conjectured  to  have  been  originally  "  An  inch  of  a  miss  is 
as  good  as  a  mile,"  corresponding  to  the  German  "  Almost  never  killed  a  fly" 


574  CURRENT  NOTES. 

(Bcinahc  bringt  keine  Mucke  um),  the  Danish  "  Ail-but  saved  many  a  man" 
(Nasr  hielper  mangen  Mand}  and  "  Almost  kills  no  man"  (Ncerved  tlaaer  ingen 
Mand  ihicl),  and,  indeed,  to  the  old  English  "  Almost  was  never  hanged."  But 
it  ia  not  impossible  that  the  proverb  originally  stood  "  Amis  is  as  good  as 
Amile,"  these  being  the  names  of  two  legendary  soldiers  of  Charlemagne,  titular 
heroes  of  a  famous  chanson  de  geste,  who  were  as  like  one  another  as  the  two 
Dromioa  of  Shakespeare,  who  took  up  each  other's  quarrels,  and  who  after 
being  adopted  into  the  traditions  of  the  Church  as  martyrs  might  be  invoked 
indifferently. 

HORSFORD'S  ACID  PHOSPHATE  IMPROVES  NUTRITION. — Dr.  A.  Trau,  Phil 
adelphia,  says,  "  It  promotes  digestion,  and  improves  general  nutrition  of  the 
nervous  system." 

"A  FEATHER  in  his  cap,"  an  expression  signifying  honor,  distinction,  arose 
from  the  custom  prevalent  among  the  ancient  Syrians  and  perpetuated  to  this 
day  among  the  various  savage  or  semi-civilized  tribes  of  Asia  and  America  of 
adding  a  new  feather  to  their  head-gear  for  every  enemy  slain.  In  the  days  of 
chivalry  the  maiden  knight  received  his  casque  featherless  and  won  his  plumes 
as  he  had  won  his  spurs.  In  a  manuscript  written  by  Richard  Hansard  in  1598 
and  preserved  in  the  British  Museum,  it  is  said  of  the  Hungarians,  "  It  hath  been 
an  antient  custom  among  them  that  none  shoulde  wear  a  fether  but  he  who  had 
killed  a  Turk,  to  whom  onlie  yt  was  lawful  to  shew  the  number  of  fethers  in  his 
cappo."  In  Scotland  and  Wales  it  is  still  customary  for  the  sportsman  who  kills 
the  first  woodcock  to  pluck  out  a  feather  and  stick  it  in  his  cap. 

HORSFORD'S  ACID  PHOSPHATE  IN  NERVOUS  DEBILITY. — Dr.  W.  J.  Burt, 
Austin,  Texas,  says,  "  I  used  it  in  a  case  of  nervous  debility,  and  very  great  im 
provement  followed/' 

AN  interesting  experiment  will  be  tried  in  Lippincott's  for  May,  which  will 
be  a  No-Name  number,  contributed  to  by  some  of  the  most  popular  writers  in 
America,  whose  names  will  be  divulged  in  a  future  number. 

HORSFORD'S  ACID  PHOSPHATE  THE  BEST  RESTORER. — Dr.  T.  C.  Smith, 
Charlotte,  North  Carolina,  says,  "It  is  an  invaluable  nerve-tonic,  aud  the  best 
restorer  when  the  energies  flag  and  the  spirits  droop." 

EVERY  one  knows  that  cocoa  is  an  excellent  tonic.  Taken  in  the  morning, 
at  breakfast,  it  has  no  equal  for  nutrition  and  strengthening  qualities ;  but  it  can 
be  taken  with  advantage  at  any  time.  It  is  especially  recommended  for  nursing 
mothers,  to  whom  its  benefits  are  invaluable.  Unfortunately,  cocoa  is  sometimes 
mixed  with  starch,  arrow-root,  or  sugar,  and  thus  loses  a  great  part  of  its  special 
properties ;  hence  great  care  should  be  taken  to  procure  the  best  in  the  market. 
Baker's  Breakfast  Cocoa  and  Chocolate  preparations  have  long  been  the  standard 
of  excellence,  and  are  guaranteed  absolutely  pure. 

HORSFORD'S  ACID  PHOSPHATE  IMPORTANT. — Dr.  T.  C.  Smith,  Charlotte, 
North  Carolina,  says,  "I  attach  to  it  the  highest  importance,  not  only  as  sm 
agreeable  cooling  drink,  but  as  a  therapeutic  agent  of  well-defined  and  specific 
value." 


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